


W4nderer

by InsomniaJuice



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Borderlands 2, Borderlands 3 - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Tales From the Borderlands, Will feature other vault hunters too, Zer0 centric stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23696056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsomniaJuice/pseuds/InsomniaJuice
Summary: A series of stories about Zer0 and his search for a challenge! Set in different timeframes before, during, and after the games. Our favourite ambiguously human (emphasis on "ambiguous") assassin and what might be going on in his head...
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use he/him pronouns for Zer0 because that's how he's described in the games, but I'm open to the idea that it's probably a "they" under that mask. I'm just going with my own interpretation of Zer0, so peace if y'all want to believe him/them as any gender you want, I'm cool with that.
> 
> Also, sometimes we get the haiku syllables wrong, so I want to have a try at that. It's 5-7-5, not 3-5-3 or anything else! People can confuse haiku for tanka, and that just ticks me off. Sorry, I'm a stickler for format.
> 
> This particular story is set before we meet Zer0 in Borderlands 2, back when he was a less famous assassin, and had a lot more mundane jobs. Well.as mundane as it could get for him...

Promethea, before the fall of Atlas.

Cold rain on concrete stirred up dust that had been sticking to the neon city for too long. The buildings themselves almost look monolithic, tall shadows pierced the dark night sky and its heavy blanket of clouds. Shapes and figures faded in and out of curtains of rain, each trying to outrun the coldness that seeped into their clothes and soaked their bodies. The world was real yet not - the haze obscured much of the neon letters, through the torrential downpour they seemed no more than patches of iridescence separated by a suffocating darkness. Through the deafening rainfall came faint music, chatter, splashing water by hasty footsteps, then the silence of the night ate up all the noise, and Promethea fell lifeless once more.

He knew how his attire attracted unwanted attention, a suspicious glare, a hasty whisper, some wandering eyes - no matter, they are inconsequential to his job. Assassins are supposed to blend in, but he’d sacrifice that for anonymity. There’s nothing that quite strikes fear into your target like a mystery they can’t solve. Most people don’t live long enough to figure out who - or _what_ \- he is anyways.

Traces of rain flowed freely down his helmet. When he first obtained it, he immediately knew he had to utilize that facelessness to his advantage. It made him unpredictable, his targets never knew if he was quite out of his depth yet, or if he had planned every moment of their fatal encounter. In the next few years it’s sustained some wear and tear, but still largely intact. His provider assured him the helmet could take a few good hits from a Jakobs revolver before cracking, and that it just might save his life.

The rest of him wasn’t as sleek and high-tech as he would’ve liked it to be. He needed something more sturdy than this heavy Dahl jacket he pried off a corpse (there’s still blood on the collars), and preferably somewhere to fit his ammo clip other than the faded black combat pants - there has to be at least six different types of mud and sludge clinging to them by now. He _was_ covered head to toe, sure, but there has to be something better than second-hand military gear looted from dead soldiers.

The Jakobs sniper rifle dangled uncomfortably from the strap around his shoulders. It was an old thing, but he was antiquated, too. His manner of speaking, his weapons, his jokes and references. Before he fully embraced the whole “silent badass” demeanor, his clients had stared at him wide-eyed as the _Fresh Prince of Bel-air_ flew right over their heads. 

_Two left turns after the bar, go along the right side of the street until you see a cinema with a snake head, then turn right and you’ll see the apartments._

He had memorized the route, but pulled up the map on his HUD just in case. He’s going the right way.

The job itself was well-paying, but unfulfilling. A rookie assassin couldn’t hope for much on the black market save for the occasional escalating feuds, gang wars, or petty revenge from a disgruntled employee/spouse. His first job was entirely coincidental - he was in the right place at the right time, had a gun with enough ammo, and just took the shot. _Not much of an origin story for someone who will eventually grow to be the most feared intergalactic assassin ever,_ he pondered to himself.

He had been hired by a greasy-looking small man in an ill-fitted suit. The man reminded him of the dead rats he saw on Hestia one time - a few particularly cruel boys strung up the little things and watched them squirm. The man seemed to squirm the same way when they made eye contact.

The man was a loan shark, and needed to make an example of one of his debtors. Go in there and make a mess, make it art, like a painting. That ought to tell the others what to do. He disliked senseless cruelty, but a job is a job, and he will play Rembrandt for his clients.

The rain pelted down mercilessly on the passers-by, no one spared him a glance as he regarded the city from the safety of towering shadows. He breathed in frozen air mixed with dust and rain, _cold._ His heart raced (or whatever equivalent of a heart he thinks he has), a familiar tingle at his fingertips reminded him of the silence before the hunt - a lion’s deathly quietness that’s usually punctuated by the scream of its dying prey. He knew the silence is where the battle is fought, and the pounce is only the after image of a victory. He will make the silence last.

He didn’t bother with climbing the rusty fire escape stairs, only attached the rope to his rappelling device and began inching his way up the building, no point taking any risks with footsteps on old buildings in disrepair. His ascent fell in sync with rain knocking on the tiled roofs, and occasionally he’d spare a glance beneath him to see all the little illuminated windows of apartments like niches in a beehive. Then he’d turn his head to face the vast, black sky, and feel the thousand little falling needles bouncing off his helmet. When the sound of water hitting his visor became too loud, he pulled the hood of the Dahl military jacket over his head, letting the heavy fabric absorb the rainfall.

 _Count the windows...three from the left, twenty-seven floors up_. That’s the right address.

He sucked in a deep breath, steadied himself against the fragile glass window, and swung with all his strength.

_Crash!_

Headfirst into darkness he dove, then landed on a mosaic of shattered glass. The man in the study was numb with absolute shock at the audacity of his unwelcomed guest. His pallid face contorted itself into a grimace of horror, then realization, then soul-wrenching pain.

The man was in his thirties, frail and brittle like a glass figurine. He sprawled on the ground, fear tying him down like crawling roots. He knew why his house was being broken into, and he knew he’s not leaving this room except in a body bag, so he grabbed a letter opener and charged.

The intruder looked at the man rushing at him in despair, and dodged to the side. He swept his feet across and caught the man’s legs, watched him stumble into a pile of furniture and his glasses shatter into his face. A scream of pain. He wrestled the man up on his feet and kicked him into the wall.

A subdued cry from another room, a creak of a single floor board. _Someone else was home_.

No matter, he only came for one target. He grabbed the terrified wreck by his shoulders and slammed him into the desk, papers went flying everywhere. The man’s face was smeared red with glass shards sticking out from under the skin - he was bleeding from his nose, too.

“P-please…”

The assassin said nothing. His victim squirmed under his grasp, then suddenly plunged the letter opener into the heavy Dahl jacket, sinking it all the way in.

Apprehensive silence. He lifted up his jacket and found only the tip of the opener sticking through. A thin film of red blood coated the pointy instrument, just a small wound. He pulled it out and threw it out of the broken window. The man feebly thumped at his chest, fist clenched tight around a simple gold band on his left ring finger. 

The soft hum of a digistruct blade reverberated throughout the room, and everything lit up in a ghoulish blue. He didn’t know why he ditched his perfectly good katana for such a flashy instrument - the light could give away his position. But then again, his provider guaranteed him the blade is _much_ more durable, and could cut through even the heaviest reinforced doors.

Right now, all he had to cut through was around three millimeter of skin, fat and muscle.

He wiped off some of the blood clotting around the man’s nose, plucked out a particularly large piece of glass shard, and swung the blade down through his neck. A brilliant fountain of crimson shot up at him. Through a few seconds of wet gurgles and moans, the man had gone limp in his hands.

He laid the corpse down on the floor, then stabbed it a few more times with his sword, shot through the arms and knees with a silenced Jakobs revolver, and gave it a good final blast from a Maliwan pistol with incendiary rounds. The fire quickly subdued, leaving a partially charred body with a cheap nylon shirt fused onto the now exposed muscles.

A strangled sob, some more frantic pacing, then finally, the bedroom door flew open. A young woman charged in with a pair of scissors and a desperate battle cry. She threw herself at him, the scissor narrowly missing his shoulder. He pinned her down to the floor and waited for her strength to give out. She screamed and tore at him like a feral animal, long and wild blackhair tangling around her gaunt, pale face. He noticed the same golden band around her fingers. She swore and spat at him, tried to reach the scissors that had fallen feet away from her, and after a good half hour or so, finally quieted down. Then she crawled away from the assassin, curled up near the dead body, and began quietly weeping.

“Why?” came the question through broken gasps and sobs, “Why? _Why?_ ”

He didn’t answer.

The woman snapped to glare at him, he didn’t think it’d be possible for human eyes to be filled with the same primal hatred and anger as a cornered animal. But then there again, this woman has little differences from a cornered animal.

“ _He_ sent you, didn’t he?” She spat hatefully.

“Small, short, like a rat? If you were thinking of him, you would be correct.”

She shivered at the inhuman monotone that came from under the black helmet, but nodded a few seconds later, “That’s the one.”

He looked around the room: small, empty. Minimum furnishing save for a wilted pot of some small unknown shrubbery, and the mails now scattered all over the floor. The man’s blood painted an abstract shape on the white canvas beneath him - changing shades of red and black that pooled around his body. The smell of burning flesh was slowly giving way to the cold and wet night air.

“Did he hire you to finish me?” She suddenly asked, staring up from the dead man’s corpse with teary eyes.

He shook his head, “No. Just had one job.”

They were both silent for a moment, just listening to the deafening rainfall furiously crashing down on this godforsaken city. Then she turned to look at him.

“Can I hire you?”

This time he nodded.

***

As promised, he met the rat in a bar. The assassin let himself in through the basement doors. He stalked around the maze-like underground distillery and storage rooms until he came up on the private booths where the man was playing poker with several other thugs.

When the man saw the lithe figure through rising cigarette smoke and dim yellow lights, he rubbed his hands gleefully to greet his business partner.

“All done?” He asked, puffing nicotine-filled breaths at the assassin.

He handed the man some photos of the corpse, watched him examine the bullet wounds, the stab wounds, and finally, the third-degree burns. He heard him whistle loudly.

“Damn. I can’t even tell that was him. Tell me, did you break his knees first or his arms?”

“Arms.”

“Did he scream? Did you carve out his face like I asked you to?”

“A bloody visage, near unrecognizable. He screamed the whole time.”

The man turned to show the pictures to his poker companions. He waited as the others winced and gaped at the brutality by his hands, some more whistles, a few muttered exclamations. Then the rat man spun back to face him.

“My payment, in cash.” He just said.

“Right, of course.” A full heavy stack of dollar bills landed in his hands. The man’s smile had some sycophantic flattering to it, he’d seen the assassin’s handiwork, and didn’t want to get on his bad side.

“You goin’ anywhere next, buddy?” the man asked him cheerily, “Got any new jobs?”

“Actually, I do. I just took up a new one, Shouldn’t take too long.”

The man patted him on his shoulder, he flinched at the nicotine-stained fingers leaving greasy streaks on his jacket, then left the bar silently to wait outside.

It didn’t take too long for the man to stroll outside, pocket stuffed full of bills and a smug grin on his face. He stopped to see the assassin lounging on a bench nearby, and gave a confused look.

“Waiting for someone?” The man inquired, still wearing a friendly smile, “Well, it was nice doing business with you-”

He switched on his ECHO recorder.

The man didn’t even have time to realize how the sniper rounds tore his arms clean off. The bullets carried a long shockwave that fractured his bones and left his forearms dangling by a few strings of flesh. Two more shots, his kneecaps came apart like shrapnel grenades, and he fell to the ground with a heavy _thump_.

He kicked the little rat over with a boot, positioned his Maliwan pistol, and shot the man squarely in the shoulder. Fire ate away at his flesh as he screamed and howled, twitching and trying to shake free the horrible burning.

He looked inside at the bar, those who noticed something was off have already begun to reach for their weapons. He lobbed a smoke grenade inside and heard the canister go _hisss_. Focusing his attention back on the man, who was now a flaming pile of melting flesh still feebly screeching at the assassin. He took out his katana.

“I like challenges,” He spoke through the waning flames and smoke, “But cleaning up scums like you, I don’t mind at all.”

He plunged the blade down through the man’s throat, and heard the familiar gurgle and bubbling of blood in a broken airway, then he stomped on the trachea to make sure he could draw no more breath.

He looked up at the sparse crowd of audiences, then sheathed his sword and left. No one went up to stop him.

***

Nazirah trembled as the cold morning air blew through her apartment. She needed to get a new window.

A knock. She rose gleefully to greet her husband, then realized it couldn’t possibly be him. Despair sank in as she opened the door to the tall, dark figure from her nightmares.

“You.” She said, still unsure if it sounded more spiteful or desolate.

He handed her an ECHO device, the fancy kind that can save up audio _and_ video. She looked at it for a long time before realizing what it was. The figure stood still in her doorway.

“How much do you charge?” She asked quietly.

“For his life? Two bucks.”

She handed him two crumpled dollar bills, and held the ECHO recorder close to her chest. Nazirah watched the stranger unfold the bills, neatly tuck them into a small pouch he carried, then turn to face her.

She no longer felt anger and rage at the stranger who had taken her lover’s life, only pure, unadulterated fear. This kill was not an act of mercy on his behalf, nor was the assassination of Shadi out of deliberate cruelty. This man, or thing - whatever he guards so carefully under that heavy jacket - saw no difference between killing and living - he kills, just as she cleans dishes at the restaurant where she worked. He would’ve been content killing her as well, if the job called for it, and he would’ve been content if she ordered him to slaughter everyone who she ever owed money to. She realized that the mask wasn’t just to hide his face, it was to reflect her _own_. He was just slightly more expensive and complicated than a gun, but in the end, someone else has to point and squeeze the trigger.

Fear washed over her at the realization that such a creature does exist. Something that amplifies the evil of others. She wished he’d be gone forever, never to see her own frightened and sullen face in that dark mirror he wore.

And he was gone before she finished that train of thought. Gone off to another planet maybe, to end another life.

***

The lone Irishman sat at the bar, staring into the ember of his third pint. From a distance away some faint chatter and music clouded his mind. He rubbed his weary eyes - well, eye, the other one was cybernetic.

Familiar rhythmic click of boots against the ground woke him up, the same stoic stride and everything. He looked up through half-lidded eyes to meet the black helmet staring back at him. Zer0 took a seat next to the operative and drummed his fingers on the bar table.

“Back from another hunt?” He asked, swirling his glass and eyeing the assassin. There were still traces of blood on the Dahl jacket, but Zane paid them no heed.

“Promethea.” Zer0 simply said.

“Y’ know, every time ya show up here, I gotta order double.” Zane mumbled, “The bartender gives me a hard time for letting you just take up a seat. You never drink anything.”

“We know that’s not true. If you want to get more drunk, you need no excuse.”

Zane simply lifted his hand to signal for another bottle.

“Assassination, one heck of a job, eh?” He cracked a smile at Zer0, who just shrugged and continued staring off into space.

The operative watched the ember liquor spin into a little tornado as he swirled the glass around, he caught a glimpse of the sleek black helmet through the fractured light behind his whiskey. There was a cold chasm between them, they were both assassins, yet different - he was a corporate hitman, professional and courteous to his targets; Zer0 was a blood knight, hellbent on finding a “challenge” worthy of his blade. To Zane, his life was separated between bloodlust and rest - he’d come to enjoy a pint here or two, savour the finer things in life (Moxxi for example), he’s working a corporate gig. Zer0 is not. He sometimes feared what exactly made killing not only Zer0’s profession, but also his personality. Take away the slaughter, and Zane would grow bored, maybe up and find another job or try to chat up a girl. Take away the slaughter, and Zer0 would cease to exist.

There is no way something like that is fully human. Even if it walks and talks in the flesh of a human, its mind is that of an eldritch abomination. 

Zane’s more alcohol-riddled part of his brain told him to just _fuck it, Zer0’s a good help in battle, that’s all you need_.

But somehow he couldn’t shake that uneasy cold feeling, no matter how many bottles he downed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I wrote Zer0 this way because I've been reading a lot of other Borderlands fanfics and...he just felt too soft. Not that I have anything against a good fluff or cute story, but we're overlooking the fact that this guy cut off some other dude's head with a crab fork. Sometimes we get caught up in the cute fuzzy stories and forget how gruesome life in the six galaxies can be, so yeah...
> 
> I don't really feel like writing ships, because it's Pandora and everyone's trying not to die and it's really not that romantic to take anyone through the grimy wasteland of The Dust as a substitute for long walks on the beach, so this will probably just explore Zer0's interactions with other characters we didn't get to see them with in the games, and how he spends his loner time
> 
> Let me know what you think, and who you'd like to see our favourite assassin interact with. Peace.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time, Zer0's on Pandora, but before Jack contacted him. He's still running around doing basic quests, but I want to explore how he got his tech exactly!  
> Also, I think that even if Zer0 isn't human, he's probably an organic - Moxxi's Wedding Day Massacre has him tasting wine, and if you do the Claptrap Birthday Party quest, he eats a pizza! Though I don't know about the lack of breathing sounds...maybe he's a cyborg?  
> I haven't played the games in a loooong time, so sorry if I got any in-game details wrong :P

He’s only been on this planet for a few weeks, and already it’s been more fun than all his years on Promethea. Combined.

Yesterday he saw a rakk chasing a varkid straight into an exploding firemelon, then showering the grassy knolls of Highlands with their charred insides. That’s not something you can just up and find on Aquator or Athenas.

Still, he’s here to do a job. If comrade Vladof wants someone killed, that person would be dead soon. He doesn’t think of himself as picky, but sophistication plays into the whole “silent badass” enigma he’s been polishing all these years. Tediore is too loud, Hyperion too pretentious, Dahl can be useful at times, but the ammo consumption rate is...atrocious, Vladof feels  _ lacking _ , and he wouldn’t even think of touching a bandit weapon. The only rifles he’d ever truly admired were Jakobs-made. Sure, sometimes he wishes there could be an electrified bullet punching through a nomad’s shields, or an incendiary round to knock some respect into the surrounding bandit clans, but elemental damages just felt like  _ interference _ to him.

The boisterous Irishman called him old-fashioned many times, their conversation either punctuated by deafening gunshots or gulps of liquor. Zane just couldn’t see how someone so keenly focused on efficiency would go in such a roundabout way to kill.

“You won’t understand.” He remembers rebuking the operative in the midst of a firefight, “Jakobs can kill in one shot, and that’s all I need.”

As if to demonstrate his point, he pointed the new addition to his arsenal at a charging marauder,  _ click _ .  _ Bang! _ Then silence. The whole process took no more than a second.

Zane whistled.

“Credit where it’s due,” the operative eyed the wooden stock and finish of his sniper rifle, “you’ve got a quick eye, boyo.”

_ What was he doing? Oh right, the job. _

He pulled himself out of the memory walk and turned his attention to the map on his HUD display, Opportunity is only a few miles off, and he could make it there around the time sun dips behind the horizon and gives him a perfect cover.

The drive was monotonous, even the occasional screech of stalkers and varkids crunching under his wheels became nothing more than background noise. He might’ve ran over some bandits too, but by that point they’re no different from the red paste coating the front of his vehicle. With nothing better to focus his mind on, he retreated into another memory walk.

A young man dressed in a cheap but neat suit came to him on behalf of Ivan Vladof, gingerly asking him to end the life of an inconvenience to their business empire. The young man went to the trouble of explaining the situation they have with Hyperion, and why the target needs to be terminated, all in a jittery and nervous voice. He zoned out halfway through their conversation, and picked up just a few snippets of the issue.

Apparently, the Hyperion engineer used to work for Vladof, then escaped with some of their technology. He didn’t even feel like having the patience for  _ that _ information, so when his client reiterated for the  _ third time _ that certain death is key, he bluntly cut the man off.

“Five thousand.”

“What?” came the confused babble reply.

“Five thousand dollars. Have it ready when he’s dead, expect a corpse soon.”

The young man squeezed out a pale smile. The assassin stared at the small wad of cash held out before him.

“Partial payment upfront.” Explained his employer, “I’ll wire the rest to your account. Just give me your ECHO-”

“No.” He cut him off again, “Cash will do just fine.”

Like hell he’s gonna hand out his account information.

The young man nodded in understanding, and fumbled out of the bar in an attempt to escape the towering assassin’s shadow. He looked on almost sympathetically at the disappearing figure,  _ the benefits of working a corporate gig. _

***

Opportunity was  _ even uglier _ upfront. He thought the neon jungle of Promethea stung his eyes quite a bit, back when he worked jobs for Atlas.  _ Atlas has nothing on Hyperion _ . The jackasses apparently saw the necessity to incorporate their signature jagged edges, horridly pale colour schemes, and ridiculous architecture all into one massive egotropolis - not to mention the towering Handsome Jack statues that are almost certainly rigged with surveillance cameras. His pulse quickened in anticipation of painting Jack’s vision of the future in a gory shower of blood and guts. Starting with that one engineer.

He cloaked before entering the city limits, careful to avoid potential thermal scans and EMP fields - just in case Jack felt like disabling his residents’ intent to assassinate him. He silently scolded the paranoid asshole for making his job more difficult, but that’s what he lives for, isn’t it? A challenge?

He was quick to disable the surveyors and loaders who happened to glance his way - no grenades, no explosives, just good old silenced scope from his trusty Jakobs rifle. He hasn’t been in the business for long, but like Zane said, he’s got a quick eye and knows where to strike. Some more troublesome loaders required a stab through their frames, nothing his new katana couldn’t manage. Afterwards, he was careful to dispose of the bodies with his Maliwan incendiary rounds, no traces for the securities.

Time to remind Jack and his lackeys that nobody can tame Pandora, not even Hyperion.

He perched atop one of the glass monoliths, the surveyor he hijacked lay in tattered pieces nearby. _ Getting up was easier than getting down, _ he figured to himself. From his vantage point he could see the entire concrete skeleton of the city sprawling over the Highlands, twisting the landscape into sharp, jangly geometric abominations. Even the burgundy hues of approaching dusk cannot dull its harsh lights. Amidst this modern chaos, he mentally picked apart the silhouettes behind fragile glass windows in search of his target.

The target’s physical presence didn’t alert him as much as the scent did. Even under his heavy helmet he could taste the rich spices coming from the exotic diner. Jack’s clientele had a taste for the rarest the six galaxies have to offer, apparently. He spotted the man, conversing and dining with some other families of high status. He recognized the Holloways, The Katagawas, and a woman’s fleeting image who appeared to be Aurelia Hammerlock - all the rich, haughty and affluent of the upper echelon.

He couldn’t help but notice the dozen dishes laid out before the dinner party: crab frittata seasoned with almas caviar and samundari khazana spices, some species of bluefin he’d only seen on a tourist advertisement for Aquator, fruit salad from Eden-6, and an almost ridiculously large plate of some unknown deep sea arthropod with shimmering violet scales. Full and heavy scent of broth and spices gave him an unpleasant realization: he’s jealous.

Who wouldn’t be? Compared to the weeks he spent trying to tear a measly strip of flesh off some frozen bullywong, or scavenging for edible parts on a skag after he makeshift roasted it with his Maliwan pistol, even Moxxi’s greasy pizza and watered-down rakkale became a delicacy. While he fished for scraps of food from dead Crimson Lance soldiers, these bastards are wasting morsels of the finest they could procure. While he was never one to covet material possessions, he  _ was _ very, very hungry.

_ Job first, then a pint at Moxxi’s _ , he steadied his rifle and squeezed the trigger.

_ Zip! _

Just as the silenced bullet sliced through thin air, he realized something was off. There are no surveyors pestering him. Why? Why would someone as paranoid as Handsome Jack build his city on fragile panels of glass, then leave the skies to prowling assassins? Why line the buildings with something easily penetrable? Unless…

_ Unless it’s not as penetrable as it seems. _

_ Crack. _

To Jakobs’ credit, the large-caliber bullet left a spider web of cracks on the reinforced glass, but his recklessness cost him his secrecy: surveyors and loaders poured out from every exit. He watched the Holloways and Katagawas hurry out from their dining table and onto emergency transport shuttles. No matter, he needs to focus on the engineer for now.

He swung himself down from the perch, landing precariously on a thin ledge beneath the rooftop. He eyed the distance between his spot and the window, then leapt into the air.

A swarm of surveyors swooped down at the free-falling assassin. He timed the jump just right to land himself on one of those pesky metal drones, then plunged his katana into the surveyor and steered it forward, forcing it to crash down into the window where his target hid.

_ Crash!! _

He stood up and shook off the glass shards.  _ Dahl really does make some sturdy clothes _ . There were more doors opening now, red lights flashing and sirens blaring to announce his presence. Loaders and Hyperion soldiers poured into the restaurant and began raining gunfire down on him. No matter how sturdy his Dahl military jacket is, there’s no way it can withstand twenty Hyperion hawks blasting at him. He rolled out of the way and ducked behind the expensive mahogany furniture to reload, hearing white-hot rounds zipping past him. Some more commands were being shouted over the comms - reinforcements are coming. He had to act fast, or his target would be gone before he left his cover.

He lobbed a grenade over his shoulder and heard the soldiers scampering for cover.  **_BAM!_ ** The force of the explosion knocked the table into him as he ducked away. A cacophony of screams and curses rose from the other side. Then a moment later, the child grenades blew up what remained of the soldiers. He popped up his head to see if there were anyone left - there’s no way his target survived a blast from 6 incendiary Torgue child grenades packed with shrapnel.

The interior of the restaurant was painted bloody red just as he expected. Black smoke billowed from scattered remains of Hyperions soldiers. He examined the devastation before him...no survivors. His gaze then shifted to the engineer, still standing in the middle of the room, unscatched but terrified.

**_?_ **

The man’s outline fizzed, and the hologram dissipated. He cursed bitterly under his helmet at the holostructed doppleganger. Hyperion will bleed to replenish his pride.

A buzz, then muffled static from a half-wrecked pile of what used to be a radio. He walked over and picked it up.

“ _ All loaders…*bzzt*...-ion personnel, retreat to Waterfront District, prepare for extraction at point- *bzzz*....” _

So that’s where they are.

***

The engineer trembled under the harsh fluorescent light of the elevator, two Hyperion hawks by his side clenching their assault rifles. He’s well aware of Vladof’s past assassination attempts, but none ever came so close as this one.

_ Who was that guy? His gear didn’t look Vladof, nor Torgue...he had a Jakobs rifle, but Jakobs couldn’t care less about their competition...and that helmet! It’s almost...alien in design. But the Dahl military jacket, and the Crimson Lance boots? He’s a jigsaw of equipments of indeterminate origin, impossible to identify _ .

He breathed a sigh of relief at the comforting ding of the elevator, knowing there will be a transit shuttle waiting for him outside to take him somewhere out of Vladof’s reach - Hieronymous maybe, or Artemis. Hopefully Aquator, he could use the vacation.

Instead, he was greeted by the cold, blank helmet of the unknown assassin. The Hyperion soldiers barely had time to aim before two kunais pinned their throats to the wall behind them. Blood sprayed over the expensive velvet interior. He watched in horror as the soldiers choked on their own blood while desperately clawing for their rifles.

He was pulled out by the shoulder and slammed into the concrete floor beneath. He curled up, reeling from the pain, and felt a heavy Crimson Lance-issued boot land on his chest.

“Your technology,” came a chilling monotone, “I find it quite intriguing. Can I borrow it?”

His frightened stutter was interrupted by a rifle burst fire. One of the soldiers had wrestled himself free from the kunai and managed to unload a few rounds into his killer before finally succumbing to blood loss. He watched in shock as the assassin was knocked off by the blast a couple feet back, then landing on his back with a painful  _ thump _ .

The engineer slowly got up to his feet, still trembling from the encounter. Seeing as the assassin made no move to end his life, he slowly approached the tall figure sprawled out on the ground, and held out the Hyperion soldier’s assault rifle before him. The barrel pointed straight at the blank helmet with the intent to fully finish the job.

Nothing from the corpse before him. Though something felt amiss...blood? Why is there no blood?

A leg swept out from under him and knocked him off balance. He dropped to the ground as the rifle was wrenched out of his grasp. As he lay there gasping once again in fear and pain, he heard the magazine being unloaded and discarded.

“Tsk.” his killer lamented, “Empty.”

He then heard the stranger unstrap his sniper rifle from across his chest. Gloved hands examined the wooden stock, then came a string of angry mutters and curses.

“Damn Hyperion-”

Bullets fell out of the now completely busted rifle. He could see where they would’ve gone through the heart was instead stopped by the sturdy wooden stock. The assassin shook his now defunct Jakobs a few more times, letting the rounds fall out.

“Saved by my rifle,” the assassin sounded exasperated, “What an untimely end to such a good weapon.”

The engineer knew he was going to die one way or another, but now he’s beginning to fear the creativity one might come up with in the absence of a firearm. He watched the tall figure fish around in his Dahl military jacket for a bit, before pulling out the most unexpected piece of equipment: a small silver crab fork.

With a terrified scream he rushed at his assailant, tackling him to the ground. He felt fingers digging into his shoulders and hauling him up in the air, then he was on the ground again. Then the heavy Crimson Lance boot came down hard on the side of his head, knocking stars into his vision. Warm blood trickled down his nose. With what feeble strength fear hasn’t wrestled from him, he crawled towards the dead Hyperion soldier, hoping to fish a pistol out from the body. The assassin pulled him back by the collar and dealt another blow to his head. His fear melted into dizzy panic as he saw the crab fork being swung down at him.

“This will have to do.”

***

He looked down at the dead engineer, head now several feet away from the body. He sighed and wiped down his bloody hands on the dead soldiers - Hyperion uniform was ugly already anyways, a bit of red might even improve it.

The crab fork he nabbed from the diner was now bent beyond recognition, with bits of mushy viscera still clinging to it. He threw it away, and began trudging back to the Highlands when something pulled his attention back to the dead man.

The holostruct projector attached to the dead engineer is still functional. For once he was glad he hadn’t annihilated the target. With some force, he ripped the whole thing out of the corpse, and examined the intricate pieces.

_ Not quite Hyperion, bits of Atlas here and there, and...what’s that? Eridian relic? Interesting… _

Looks like Hyperion reverse engineered some Atlas tech to craft this handy little device.  _ If he could get it to a certain mad scientist, maybe she could reconfigure the hologram to be him… _

TIme to pay Patricia Tannis a visit.

***

True to its name, the Arid Badlands harbored nothing but rolling dust and crazed bandits. As the self-proclaimed sirentologist stepped outside her makeshift laboratory, she was greeted with the sight of a bandit technical kicking up a sandstorm in the distance as a small horde of skags chased closely behind. She could barely make out the lanky silhouette behind the wheels, now trying to steer the technical to make more skag paste.

Tannis sighed, grabbed a shotgun she looted from a dead bandit, and went out what passed for a front porch in anticipation of her visitor. The technical screeched to a stop before her, bringing the dust cloud into her eyes. Among the cries of skags, hasty gunfire and a few muttered curses, Tannis frantically rubbed her eyes in an attempt to clear her vision. By the time her tears had cleaned away the dust, the front porch was splattered with guts.

Just as the assassin moved to greet her, a skag pup sprang up behind them. Tannis cocked her shotgun and let the slug tear through the poor creature, it fell to the ground with a dull noise.

“Well, thanks for brightening up my morning.” her face twisted into a frown, “Aside from bringing in ferocious wildlife and giving me a facial, what do you want?”

He said nothing, instead held up the bloody bundle of equipment still with bits of viscera attached, and gestured to himself.

…

“Where did you get this?” Tannis inquired, pacing around in her hut as the visitor followed her figure silently with his gaze.

“Hyperion.”

She stared at the pile of wiring and chips blankly, paying no heed to the small puddle of blood that began drying on her table. Tannis briskly walked over, fiddled around the modulator, and began plucking out various parts.

“...And you want me to wire this  _ thing _ into you?”

He nodded.

She walked over to where he sat, crossed her arms and puffed out her chest.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I need  _ you _ to wire it.”

It was obvious what she meant. The woman’s gaze could burn a hole through his Dahl jacket - and she has actually tried to do so in the past. She needs to figure out a way to link the neuroprocessor to the holostruct port. She watched the assassin weigh his options, then he spoke:

“Tell me how it works, I’ll do the rest by myself. I’ll need insta-health.”

Tannis shook her head, “It’s not something you can just...jam into you or whatever. Neuro-uplinking of hologram technology requires a polygrease interocitor core-”

“I’ve no time for that.”

She huffed again and turned to stare at her visitor, “Do you want the tech or not?”

He began prying off his Dahl jacket, then tossing it on the grimy floor carelessly. He still had a few layers of military greens on him - no doubt also looted from dead soldiers. Tannis waited for the enigma to unveil himself, only for him to grab the hologram device and turn it around like he’s examining it.

“W-what are you doing?” She stammered.

There was a ring of sharp ridges lining the side of the device, almost like sawtooth. He seemed to contemplate its function for a moment, then rolled up his sleeve, and jammed the whole thing onto his arm.

A painful  _ squelch _ noise accompanied by long lines of red blood trickled down his bare arm. The machine whirred and beeped a few times, began coiling itself around his injured forearm, and locked itself firmly into place after a series of beeping and flashing lights. Alien symbols from the Eridian core swirled on the display panel, then the device clicked off as it powered down.

A message came up on his helmet’s HUD display:  _ Decepti0n device online _

“Oh my vaults!” Tannis breathed a sigh of relief, “ _ Please _ don’t do that again. As much as I’d like to study your remains…” She cleared her throat awkwardly, “These bandits need killing and you’re good at it.”

“Insta-health.” He simply commanded.

Tannis was displeased at being bossed around by a faceless assassin, but she left nonetheless to fetch him the hypo as he requested. As the bleeding slowed, he examined the device now embedded into his forearm. It’s small enough to go unnoticed if he throws a jacket over it…

Tannis returned with the needle.

“I hope it was worth the pain.” She shoved the insta-health into his hands, “Next time, let me know in advance if you wish to blatantly ignore my professional opinion.”

“Will do.”

She elbowed him in the chest, knocking him back into the grimy couch on which he sat. He bandaged himself up a bit, then threw on the Dahl jacket. Tannis retreated to a small desk with scattered parts and files where she shuffled for a small scrap of paper.

“I need samples, you need money.” Tannis brought the scrap of paper over to him, “Do we have a deal?”

He took the scrap from her and nodded.

_ It’s back to the wilderness again, back to the hunt and the slaughter. Maybe he’ll get lucky enough to test out his new tech. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so every time I have an idea of what Zer0 looks like it just...doesn't fit. I think that if I'm ever going to unveil him, there's gonna be some unknown cosmic interference. Like when Kakashi Hakate had his mask off but things keep getting in the way lol.  
> Maybe I'll write cute stuff, or maybe I won't.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a continuation of the previous 2 chapters, this story is set before the events of BL2, but who's to say the Gen-2 and Gen-3 vault hunters didn't know each other? It'd make for some extremely interesting interactions!  
> Also I love Zane. Just a PSA.

Smuggling himself onto the transit shuttle to Eden-6 was easy, getting used to the humid clouds that clung to his clothes was not. His helmet fogged up with every thirty steps or so into the swampy marshes, the gloved hand he used to wipe down the visor with was soaked wet soon, and his heavy Dahl jacket was practically begging to be thrown away. A few times, as he trudged through muddy waters, he could’ve sworn he saw serpentine shapes coil under the waves, so he drew his Maliwan pistol and carried on parting through the thick foliage.

He regretted not taking the job that would land him on Promethea. Instead of being knee-deep in soggy dirt and fending off buzzing wildlife with the maneuverability of a drunk turtle, he could’ve been prowling the concrete skeleton of a sprawling metropolis and getting paid that same day. But he grew tired of the neon scene, or so he convinced himself.

Again, to distract himself from the squishy mud now seeping into his boots and drying into flakes on his legs, he tried to recall the details given by his employer.

A particularly elusive client of some mysterious association requested a hit on the head of Obsidian Block’s R&D, which he also considered a personal favour for Zane - the man has a bounty put on him by almost all the major arms manufacturers. How the Irish hitman managed to piss off a corporation as dormant and sluggish as Pangolin is far beyond his comprehension. Still, he’d been told to bring back any documents the target might be carrying with him (“Those papers are worth an extra thousand dollars or so, I reckon you’d want to bring them back to me.”), except the client conveniently left out the whereabouts of his target until the last second, which explains why he’s currently fighting to get his boot untangled from a pesky web of intertwining tree roots.

Zane just laughed heartily at his new job, both of their tabs piling high over an afternoon of drinking and chatting. Well, drinking only on Zane’s part.

“Yer after Obsidian Block now, boyo? Shite! Those bastards been after me fer’ years, guess they’re still pissed about that varkid I smuggled into their - nevermind that! Good times.”

He watched the man down his drink, then tap on his cybernetic eye thoughtfully, “Which reminds me, Zer0, or whatever you mysterious types been callin’ yerself these days...be careful out there.”

He took note of Zane’s tone, “Did you lose your eye during an arduous job, fighting against them?”

“No.” Zane dismissed the notion with a wave, “The eye is because I lost a dare.”

A drunken dare too, possibly. He pressed no further and left Zane to drink himself into oblivion.

The snap of a twig pulled him back to the present. He was getting closer to Ambermire, where the R&D director supposedly fled to in hiding. He hoisted his new sniper rifle up higher - a brand new Vladof, courtesy of his last job, and slid through the heavy layers of leaves searching for his target.

Among the twisting branches of overgrown trees he spotted a well-hidden cabin, nestled between the remnants of what used to be part of the Jakobs manufacturing plant. He drew his rifle and steadied for a clean headshot from the shadows. Then a deafening blast from behind him knocked him down flat face first into the dirt. His shield fizzed and crackled from taking a direct shotgun blast, and he willed his aching limbs to spring into action as he narrowly dodged another blast.

 _Damn bandits giving me away_ , he thought bitterly as he drew his Maliwan pistol, silence is unnecessary now. He quickly disposed of the one who had snuck up on him, the incendiary bullet burning the bandit to a shrieking mass of charred flesh, then he took note of the one rushing at him with a buzz axe. He leapt to the side while drawing his sword, and in one fluid motion sliced across the bandit’s chest. As he landed he plunged the blade through the man’s throat and skewered him like a roasted skag. More gunshots to his left, he kicked the corpse off his sword and dodged for cover behind the towering trees.

Swearing to himself, he realized he couldn’t throw a grenade to muffle out the gunfire - the partially submerged terrain means at best, the grenade would only be a small _boom_ underwater. He had to end this fast.

He could only pray now that his target doesn’t think of the shots as more than a few bandits scuffling instead of an assassination attempt. Maliwan pistol in one hand, he darted for the nearest cover while firing at the bandits. They viciously screeched and taunted as the shots missed them by mere inches. In response, he kicked the pile of old wooden barrels branded with Jakobs logo at the bandits. The barrels tumbled from their stack and slammed towards the bandits, who simply dodged them.

“You can’t trip me!” He heard one of them scream at him, “ _I can’t even trip me!!_ ”

Whatever that means. He dashed from his cover again and fired a few flaming bullets at the bandit hordes, he heard cruel laughter as they mocked his inaccuracy again.

 _Maliwan pistols work quickly_ , he assured himself.

More screeching and wild whooping from the bandits, sounds like they’re circling in on him. Good. He held his breath and waited patiently.

_BOOM!_

The barrels exploded one after the other, each sending splinters flying into the terrified bandits as the flames from his Maliwan pistol licked higher. After the last round of deafening blasts had gone off, the air saturated with heavy gunpowder and the faint sweetness of liquor.

He sighed in relief, just his luck for the Jakobs to leave their blackbarrels around. As a loyal customer, he’d smell Jakobs ammunition from miles away - the gunpowder is cask-aged in booze barrels, leaving a layer of highly explosive blackened residue. He made a note to thank Wainwright in person, and darted for the cabin.

The last bandit alive managed to get a few buckshot rounds to graze past him as he ran for the target. His retaliation landed a fiery bullet between the bandit’s eyes, but the scattershot pierced the cabin window and undoubtedly alerted whoever was inside at the moment. He cursed his carelessness as the bandit toppled over, dead.

At the same time the cabin door burst open, he unloaded the last of his ammo into the figure standing in the doorway, hoping it’d be enough to end the man. He saw the force of the bullets knock the man into the floor, but there was no blood. Confused, he drew his sword and approached.

He really should’ve learned _not_ to do that.

 _Bang!_ Then searing white hot pain tore through his abdomen. He clutched his wound and stumbled back several steps, grabbing at where the shotgun blast mercilessly entered his flesh. His vision swam with shaky spots of light, and through a blurry sea of pain he saw the man get up, still holding that strange-looking modified shotgun with the intent of finishing him off.

_How did he….?_

Then he saw it, the crimson hue he’d conveniently neglected - a tinge of red light coming from the man’s armor. It whirred with energy then expanded into a sphere around the director, shielding him from the assassin’s bullets. He’d seen the same technology before on wanted posters and blurry ECHO feeds - the same shield Athena the Gladiator wields with her deadly Kinetic Aspis. Somehow, the researchers at Obsidian Block managed to reverse engineer Atlas technology, and make it into an invisible full-body armor.

He was _so_ fucked.

Struggling, he reached for the Maliwan pistol that had fallen from him when he got shot. If the piercing pain in his body hadn’t deterred him from grabbing the gun, another blast from the director’s shotgun certainly did. This time the slug tore through his left leg, he felt the shrapnel lodge themselves firmly in his wound and couldn’t help but hiss out in pain.

“Damn...the Crimson Lance sure is getting desperate.” He heard the man chuckle through the intense ringing in his ears.

So that’s why they want him dead. The Aspis Shield was Atlas property, Obsidian Block stole their trade secret. The realization dawned too late on him as he cursed his client for being so mysterious. What good is this revelation now? He’s gonna die.

Static fizzed in his vision as he desperately crawled away from the director. The rough and sickening metallic taste of slag settling in his mouth as he realized he’d been doused in eridium waste. The muscles slacked with the poison seeping into his bloodstream, and he lost all feeling in his injured leg.

He hadn’t known fear all his life, even when he was first ordered to shoot to kill, all he felt was the unpleasant sensation of a gun’s recoil. Even now in his slag-addled mind, he was confused as to why he isn’t freaking out at the prospect of himself dying.

Maybe it’s what he’s been waiting for.

 _Not face down in the dirt of some swamp planet, not when jabbers and bandits will pick his corpse clean and play racquet with his skull_ , he thought bitterly, and pushed himself up.

He knew activating Decepti0n wouldn’t work, he’s bleeding profusely and even invisibility couldn’t conceal the puddle of blood that drained from him. All he needed was a momentary distraction. With a click the digistruct clone buzzed into existence, the burst of bright light staggered the director for a few seconds. He rolled over to his side (filling his vision with stars as he did so), and kicked up at the man’s chest with his one good leg.

A concealed knife sprang from his boots - courtesy of his own paranoia and craftsmanship, and punctured the energy core of the Aspis shield. With a deafening _crack_ the shield had shattered into fading bits of electricity, sending the director tumbling backwards. He staggered up and held himself steady with his katana, feeling hollowed out and weakened on top of the pulsing waves of pain. He saw the terror in the man’s eyes as he loomed over his target, still bleeding everywhere. He stabbed down and impaled the gun-wielding hand to the blackened earth beneath, and as the man screamed and thrasted under him, he pulled out a Tediore grenade, tugged the pin loose, and stuffed it into the man’s mouth.

As soon as that’s done, he let himself stumble all the way back into the foliage, fall flat on his back into the muddy swamp, and heard the choked cries of his target before an obscenely loud _bang_ went off, sending bits of viscera flying his way.

He had to be gone, if he bled out here, the jabbers would eat him and the corpse alike. He pulled out the single insta-health he carried and plunged the needle into his leg. Whatever concoction Anshin had packed in those needles slowed his bleeding. It was far from a miracle worker, but now he had a few extra hours before he succumbed to blood loss. With that in mind, he began staggering towards the nearest transit shuttle station, hoping to make it to a metropolis where he could nab a few more hypos.

His luck didn’t let him get too far before Eden-6 decided to play more cruel tricks on him. The humid air finally condensed into a furious downpour as he trudged through knee-deep mud. It took more than his desperate will to drag himself through the sludge that tugged at his boots with every step, and eventually he couldn’t tell if it’s rain or blood he’s feeling through his clothes, and simply gave up.

He found temporary refuge under the towering husk of an old, dead tree, and crumpled into a heap near its coiling roots. He glanced down at his Dahl jacket, and found several beads of slagged buckshot embedded into the heavy fabric, albeit the rest was soaked in blood and utterly ruined by drops of slag. He shed his jacket and despite better judgement, dug a bloody gloved finger into his wounds and fished around for the rest of the pellets.

After about three tries or so, he promptly passed out under the tree.

***

The first thing he woke to was a soft grunting noise, then to something hot and moist sliding across his arms. The uncomfortable sensation made him spring up from where he slept and blinked around in surprise. He then frantically checked his body - his helmet was still on, although the mismatched lock suggested that someone had tried to remove it, his Dahl jacket was nowhere to be seen and his military greens were still on, albeit arbitrarily washed and cleansed to the point where blood was barely visible. He looked down at his leg: still aching like heck but bandaged up. He then turned to search for his gun, and found the bust-up Maliwan pistol lying near his bed. His eyes darted over to the magazine - all empty.

He slowly began taking in his surroundings. It was a small room that seemed to connect to a larger building. The aged structure was made of beautifully shaped wooden beams, with only a single lamp hanging from the ceiling and swaying gently. He could still hear the rain pounding outside, but a small window sheltered him from the storm. The room was empty save for a workbench, his bed, a few sparsely placed chairs and some booze barrels…

It was the Blackbarrel Cellars. He’s inside the Jakobs factory.

Without even processing the implication of waking up in a place like _this_ , his gaze shifted to what hot and moist thing had lapped at his arm seconds ago: a skag’s tongue. His first instinct was to digistruct his knife and thrust it through the bastard’s brainstem, but he noticed something different: this one had a backpack strapped to it.

Weird, he’s never heard of a pet skag before.

His suspicions were soon confirmed by a loud booming voice from one of the other rooms.

The skag panted happily with its tongue hanging out of its mouth, then bounded for its master in the other room. He simply sat on the bed, dumbfounded as the door was pushed open, and a tall figure emerged while calling out for “Mr. Chew”.

“Mr. Chew, come quickly, we mustn’t wake our-”

The AI stopped in the door, their one single green eye stared at the assassin, who stared back behind the blank helmet. For a moment he could’ve sworn the bot was sizing him up with that unblinking gaze.

“...Oh.” Fl4k simply said. Mr. Chew happily rolled over on the floor and kicked its little legs up in the air, he couldn’t help but chuckle at that.

“You’re a tamer, huh?” He watched Fl4k try and conceal their embarrassment at their pet’s apparent hospitality, “He seems quite obedient, an impressive feat.”

Fl4k just nodded.

“You’re Zer0, the assassin.” They stated, matter-of-factly.

“Yes.”

Then awkward silence filled the air as both of them realized they’re much better at shooting things than making small talk.

“Why did you help me?” He finally asked, swinging his legs off the side of the bed to face the beastmaster, “I’m worth quite a small fortune...if you turn me in.”

“Money means nothing to me.” The AI simply stated, walking over to where Mr. Chew was scratching himself with his hind legs, “What use would I have for it? Stuffing up empty space in my backpack?”

Fl4k picked up Mr. Chew and gently set him outside the room. He heard the robot mutter a quiet “stay” before walking over to him once again.

“Why’d you help me then? You owe me nothing at all, let alone a life.”

Fl4k bowed their head for a moment, organizing their thoughts.

“I encountered a particularly boisterous Irish hitman, who seemed to value your life quite a bit. I am in _his_ debt, until now.”

He quietly contemplated this response, then decided it’s reasonable enough for the hunter to rescue him. Fl4k reached out a robotic hand.

“I’m Fl4k.”

He shook their hand. Fl4k paused in hesitation.

“Four fingers.” They observed.

He made a small noise to acknowledge this fact.

“I’ll be on my way.” He wobbly hoisted himself up from the bed, then immediately collapsed again after his injured leg sent stars flying through his vision, “On second thought...maybe not. How long can I stay?”

“As long as you wish.” Fl4k responded, “In exchange for exterminating nearby bandit tribes, Wainwright Jakobs has granted me residence in the old factory. He’s proven to be...quite charitable.”

He couldn’t help but feel a bit tingly at the mention of Wainwright, the man had single-handedly crafted some of his most prized possessions. His thoughts drifted to his bust-up sniper rifle, and a new question bubbled up in his brain.

“Is Wainwright here? Now?” He pressed, “I require a new gun, and some fine-tuning.”

“No, but he left the old arsenal at my disposal. Feel free to loot and plunder as you characteristically do.”

He was not used to this level of hospitality, usually he had to pry his weapons out of stiff corpses or fish them out of skags who got too hungry. But Fl4k sounded sincere enough, and he hadn’t a moment to waste.

***

They stood before a wall of polished Jakobs weapons ranging from pistols and revolvers to assault rifles. Fl4k crossed their arms patiently and hummed slowly to themselves as he examined every inch of the sleek sniper rifle - its immaculate wooden frame, its long and slender barrel tinted a glossy black, its mounted sight, he’d never seen anything like it before.

“Why come to Eden?” His question snapped the beastmaster out of their little trance, “This planet does not hold vaults, just dead assassins.”

Fl4k let out a chuckle at that, he could sense words rolling around in their head before they came up with an answer.

“For the hunt. I long to sate my Mistress Death, and came to Eden-6 chasing the scent of bloodshed.”

He nodded at that, he could understand a thing or two about hunting.

“...and because I want a jabber.”

The answer made him sputter a bit, thankfully the helmet filtered the noise. “Wait, what?”

Fl4k turned to him, entirely deadpan and as serious as a one-eyed AI could look, “I. Want. A. Jabber.”

He made a vague gesture to Mr. Chew, who’s happily chewing on what appeared to be a bandit’s foot.

“Mr. Chew has been a valuable companion and a trusted aide,” Fl4k admitted, “You haven’t met Broodless yet, she’s...enthusiastic. For a spiderant. But I seek a more...simian assistant.”

He decided to refrain from questioning more about Fl4k’s supposed growing army of wildlife, and his peculiar naming sense, and opted to inspect the rows of weapons still hanging on the wall. As he paced around looking at the weapons, he couldn’t help but notice his own wanted poster sticking out from under a pile of other various wanted posters.

“Terrible portrait,” He remarked, “Not at all how I would look, the bounty’s...too low.”

“It’ll grow higher,” Fl4k replied without looking up from their gun, “If you stop dying so much.”

“I can assure you this is _not_ a frequent thing,” He retorted, “In fact, it’s a first.”

Fl4k shifted the lens over their single eye in an expression that could only be interpreted as a smile.

“Zane spoke highly of you, I trust he did so with good reason. Which is why I was willing to save you.” They paused, then turned to summon Mr. Chew, “The hunt beckons me. Stay if you wish, I no longer require shelter.”

He watched the beastmaster hoist up their backpack, and with a whistle, Mr. Chew bounced into the room happily, trailed by a petite spiderant. He thought he’d seen enough bullshit in the six galaxies to not question anything, but Fl4k’s entourage still filled him with a weird mix of curiosity and apprehension.

“Should we meet another time,” Fl4k nodded to him, “I long to test your blade against my beasts. Farewell, assassin.”

And they vanished into the swirling greens of Eden-6 without another word.

***

A week later he was back on his feet and watching Zane drink himself into oblivion once again.

“So you’ve met Fl4k, eh? A real character.” Zane commented between gulps of whiskey, “Though I’d say their ‘hunt’ is not something I’d ever try.”

“Obviously not. You lack the virtues needed, and you drink too much.”

Zane gave him the one-eyed equivalent of a stink eye and resumed drinking.

“I heard the job nearly cost yer life.” The hitman continued talking into his mug, “Did the mighty Zer0 finally reach his limits? What could’ve possibly brought down our nigh-invulnerable ninja assassin?”

“Not enough intel.” He stated bitterly.

Zane laughed his hearty laugh, and waved the idea away. What’s important is that he’s back on his feet and ready to kill more.

“So what did the Obsidian Block pay fer that hit? Thousands? Millions? It’s ‘bout time you bought me a drink, boyo.”

“Not much.” He shook his head in disappointment, “But I _did_ nab this.”

Zane gaped at the Jakobs rifle laid out before him. His eye glowing with a fascination only matched by kids on Christmas peering into the gift shop windows.

“Shite! That’s a Skullmasher innit? A rare find too! You lucky bastard.” Zane bitterly congratulated the assassin, whose blank helmet somehow permeated an air of smugness. Zane downed the rest of his drink then turned to him with a newfound enthusiasm.

“How ‘bout we haul ass to Thousand Cuts, and try this baby out on some moving targets, eh?”

He didn’t say anything, just nodded. He watched as Zane paid off his unbelievably high tab, and thought about making bandit heads explode into pink clouds. Almost dying was _totally_ worth it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big time skip this time - we're looking at Zer0 after BL3! There are two more DLCs after Guns, Love and Tentacles. I'M SO EXCITED!!  
> This is my personal take on the "tying up loose ends" of BL3, so expect major spoilers.  
> BTW: this chapter is based on a series of easter eggs found in BL3, apparently, Tiny Tina held a Bunkers & Badasses session with Mordecai, Brick, Zer0 and Claptrap! Listen to the ECHOcast here:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1wFSCHc-RYE

Pandora is not as it used to be, he had to admit. The Children of the Vault plus Tyreen the Destroyer did a number on its rugged wilderness. Even after the fall of the Calypso twins, the CoV’s ceaseless battlecries and devout fanaticism reminded him of Katagawa Jr. Furthermore, the flaming moon outside the base is just one more reminder to how many were lost in this pointless battle. The Firehawk lit the way for Sanctuary, but they’ve lost their leader.

After Rhys met up with Vaughn, and news of Hammerlock and Wainwright’s wedding traveled from Xylourgos to Pandora, he was given a week’s leave to do as he pleased. Truth be told, he figured Rhys just wanted a break from the all-out corporate war they just recovered from, and rebuilding Lazy River Land didn’t require a professional assassin’s oversight. Far as he’s concerned, Lorelei also got her one-week leave, and promptly dusted off her old barista uniform to make some extra bucks on the side.

While he was on the transit shuttle to Pandora, he got an ECHO from Lorelei, whose service at No Roast For the Wicked apparently attracted an unprecedented number of Crimson Lance soldiers to her presence. He opened the video feed to see turquoise hair and purple face tattoo taking up the entire screen, with an ungodly amount of clamouring in the background.

“Hey Z!” Greeted his fellow soldier through a bustling sea of noises, “No Roast For the Wicked just reopened! Kinda wish you’d be here to help...These Lance soldiers are going nuts without their caffeine! Anyway, say hi to your vault hunter buddies for me, eh?”

In the background someone called out to her, “Lorelei! We got another number six with a double whip!”

She faced away from the camera to shout some more commands to the Lance soldiers manning the stations, and returned an awkward smile to him once her orders were carried out.

“Rhys said there are flying insects the size of lightrunners on Pandora, send me a photo if you see one! Gotta go!”

And with that, the ECHO feed clicked off, leaving him in complete silence on the empty transit shuttle. He felt a little sheepish listening to her messages, but he couldn’t pinpoint the feeling.

He peered out the window and saw the pale body of the desert planet and it’s massive, glowing Eridium scar running down planetside. Pandora.

***

He had planned to visit Sanctuary III, or at least Athenas, to arrange affairs for Maya and Ava’s departure. But he doubted the people there would take kindly to a stranger who simply shows up out of nowhere, claiming to be Maya’s friend.

There were sparse ECHO messages sent to Axton and Salvador, both at the behest of Lilith seeking help against the Calypso twins. Salvador’s message went straight to junk mail presumably. And it wasn’t until he got a particularly angry message from Mancubus atop the small lounge in Xylourgos, that he figured Sal went into hiding to avoid the staggering high tab racked up at the bar. Axton on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen save for the one time Moze marched into town with her Iron Bear with a paint job featuring the notorious commando, half-naked and pecs glistening in the stark Pandoran sun. He also could’ve sworn one of the Crimson Lance soldiers had a life-sized Axton body pillow in their quarters.

Where Krieg had been was much more of a mystery to him than he’d liked it to be. Before her untimely demise, Maya had hinted at the psycho’s whereabouts and perhaps alluded to his recovery into the realm of sanity, yet that knowledge died along with her - slain by the Calypso twins. For that, he grieved he wasn’t there to let his gun sing its dirge to the reign of a bloody queen and her leeching brother.

So with business all settled and time to spare, he settled for the only place he was even _remotely_ familiar with: B-Team base.

The familiar feeling of a bandit technical’s steering wheel settling into the grooves of his leather gloves brought memories back. He blazed a trail across Devil’s Razor, kicking up a dust storm and ramming over any skags stupid enough to stay in his way. Mordecai had ECHOed him about their new home, and the man sounded no different than he did when they first met.

He pressed hard on the brakes, the technical screeching to a halt. He looked up at the dilapidated steel structures crawling across the desert sands, and saw the large banner that read “Boomtown” scrawled in brightly-coloured paint. He spotted the tin shack with a large bunny head adorned on top, and assumed that’s his destination.

As soon as he set foot inside the house he was captured by a pair of arms, the bandit shoulder guard digging painfully into his armor. Following the arms lead him to a young woman with the same crazed glee he recalled from years ago.

“Zer0!!” Tina exclaimed, too happy to confine her volume to a bearable level, “You actually came!”

Then she cranked her head to face the inside of the house while still gripping him in her death-hug, “Mordy! Brick! Get over here! It’s your favourite ninja!! Come out and we’re all gonna catch up!!”

He awkwardly shrugged his way out of the hug, and took the time to observe her bunny mask, her new gear, and the little dog paw tattoo on her cheek. He also noticed the same smell of nitroglycerin and saltpeter wafting from her.

“Look at who it is.” he commented, “My favourite crackhead girl. Grown up, still insane.”

She gave him a toothy grin with dimples on each side, and beckoned him to settle in one of the “chairs” they set up. Really they were just wooden crates with clothes thrown over them haphazardly, but he didn’t mind.

The commotion brought Brick from somewhere in the kitchen. The brawler’s eyes lit up as he saw the assassin sitting next to Tina, then stormed his way across the room with arms open for another hug. He deftly ducked under Brick and rolled out of the way, leaving the latter looking a little miffed.

Tina laughed at his attempt, “I told ‘ya, Bricky-Brick! Zer0’s _cooool_ , he doesn’t do HUGS. My man’s gotta be mysterious.”

Brick seemed no less deterred by his distant demeanor, because the next second the man slammed his massive fists together excitedly. “You wanna punch bandits? Tina found a nest of CoV still roaming ‘round, ready for punching.”

He shook his head.

They heard footsteps descending the stairs from Mordecai’s sniper perch. Soon, a head full of wild feathers popped out from upstairs to see his new visitor. Mordecai’s lips stretched into a wide grin as he recognized his old vault-hunting friend, and he excitedly jogged down the steps with his sniper rifle in tow.

“Look who it is!” The hunter came up to him and sized him up for a moment or two, he appreciated not being bear-hugged for once, “Look who it is. Damn, Z, you workin’ for Atlas now?”

He nodded. Mordecai chuckled and gave him a soft shove.

“Still the chatterbox I see.” The hunter quipped, huffing breaths thick with alcohol as he pranced around happily, “How’s that corporate gig working out for ya?”

“It, well, pays my bills.” He admitted, “We fought against Maliwan, Rhys is rebuilding.”

“So I heard.” Mordecai said sympathetically, then gestured to Tina as if a clear thought finally bubbled up in his rakkale-riddled brain, “Hey Tina, weren’t you going on about that game of yours? What’s it called...Dungeons and Dragons?”

“IT’S BUNKERS AND BADASSES!” Tina exclaimed in fierce disapproval, “Never heard of a Dungeons and Dragons. Mordy, you gettin’ old.”

Mordecai just sighed and took his place at the table. He could see the man roll his eyes even behind the thick goggle glasses.

Somewhere in another room, he heard the whirring of little wheels, then what could possibly be the most obnoxious noise in the universe calling out to him.

“ _MINION?!?”_

***

“Let me get this straight, there are monsters right outside, but we fight fake ones?”

Tina sighed and propped up her head with both elbows on the table, her pile of crumpets and tea had long gone cold.

“It’s a _gaaaaame_ , shawty.” She chided him softly, “You _pre-tend_ there’s stuff goin’ on, okay? Now, take your pick.”

She shoved the pile of figurines in his direction. He saw Mordecai had already chosen a mechromancer, and Brick had a hulking barbarian figure with siren tattoos painted on the side of his body. Claptrap had a hilariously evil-looking assassin sitting in front of his little section of the table. His fingers hovered above the figures for a few seconds, then settled on a dark priest clad in black cloak.

“Knew you’d choose that one,” Tina rolled her eyes, “Mordy, where’s my five bucks?”

Mordecai sighed heavily, and slammed a wad of cash into Tina’s hands.

“Anyways, you’re all travelers! Adventurers! You came to the magical land of...er, Dyno-mine! Where King _Megaton_ has kidnapped ALL the bakers in the world!” Tina deftly pocketed her winning sum, then continued gesturing wildly in a vivid illustration of her tale. “You must rescue all the bestest bakers for their _de-li-cious_ chocolate chip cookie recipe.”

“That’s a terrible plot.” Mordecai said dryly.

“Shut up Mordy!”

With a _click_ , Tina switched on the ECHO broadcast, and announced to the entirety of Pandora in her most chipper voice.

“ _What is up, girls and girl-las!_ We’re back for _another_ episode of ‘Bunker Busters’!”

***

“I too, will attack.”

 _Clack,_ he rolled the dice.

“One, I assume one is good. Though zero is best.”

Tina scrunched up her brows, intensely thinking of a way to soften the blow on him, _this isn’t gonna play out well._

“Oh, _nononono_. That’s a….critical failure.”

“I expect no less.” He stated proudly, staring at the single red dot peering up at him.

Tina looked as if she was about to explode.

“Oh, hoo hoo, no. I mean, _you_ failed, Zer0. You messed up, like bad, Like _reeeeal_ bad. And-and, and not in a good way.”

“I don’t understand, I missed?”

“Not only that, but you miss _soooo baaaad_ , you accidentally stab ya self. You take one damage.”

“ _Unacceptable!_ ”

Mordecai choked down the rest of his drink as the towering assassin got up angrily, “Hey, come on man! Don’t be like that! We’re just getting started.”

Irritation tugged at the edge of his mind. He promptly left the table as Claptrap carried on explaining his assassin Lorenzo Escondido the Nefarious’ action skill - _stealth stab_.

The skill allows him to turn invisible while a holographic decoy distracts his enemies.

***

Mordecai and Claptrap were apparently amused by him rage-quitting their gaming session, while Brick was just mildly confused by the assassin’s sudden outburst. He paced around outside the house and listened to Claptrap rant about how he will loot every single corpse in the dungeon. So far, Mordecai was the only thing keeping the entire campaign from derailing into senseless slaughter and punching.

His sigh fogged up the interior of his helmet - he missed Promethea, he missed having people to kill and Lorelei, and most importantly, mocking Rhys for his atrocious moustache every time he gets the chance. On the inside, he scoffed the game of chance as childish - something that can’t be won with the skill he racked up over the years, but part of him felt a little jealous at the apparent stupidity Tina and her crew had devoted to this game. What’s it like to be childish for once? It was a feeling far too distant for him to recall.

He remembered endless chaos, some sort of program, cybernetic implants, then he wasn’t him. And he wouldn’t be for some time. Until he became Zer0.

A bunny head popped out from around the doorway, Tina called out to him, “Hey Grumpyface, we’re having crumpets. You wanna come?”

The Pandoran night chill was getting to him anyways, he made his way inside and sat next to Mordecai and Brick, who were munching away on a plate of stale pastries.

Tina stared at him, “You’re not gonna eat?”

It was obvious what she wanted. He shook his head. Tina puffed a breath of disappointment, but didn’t press the issue further.

A distant wailing from upstairs drew his attention. He sharply turned his head to the source of the noise, then asked, “What was that?”

“Claptrap.” Tina replied briskly, “He wouldn’t shaddup about _not_ having a mouth for mah crumpets...sooo Mordy dealt with him.”

Mordecai took a break from eating crumpets to crack a smile at him, he flashed a **:D** in return with gratitude.

Tina began putting away the pieces, stacking up the boards and the little figurines. Her movement was deliberate, slowed, the spark in her eyes were out for a moment.

“Heard about Maya, damn.” She mumbled, “She didn’t deserve to go out this way.”

“No one ever does,” He confirmed with a nod, not wanting to dwell on the topic for too long, “But she fought with all she had, like a true badass.”

Mordecai put down his crumpet, “Well, I’m damn glad the new VH put a bullet through that Calypso brat’s head. Just wished I coulda been there to see it.”

Brick stopped munching for a second to make a grunt in agreement. The room fell silent for a little while as everyone thought of something to say in Maya’s memory, or even about Lilith. In the end, no one could muster up a word.

“We uh, made a statue. Of her. Of Lilith.” Mordecai finally started, “Next to Roland’s grave.”

“Ellie helped us out a bit,” Tina continued, “Girlie made some bomb-ass firehawk sigils n’ all that shit.”

“A-and, Maya too. We couldn’t go to the funeral on Athenas, but, uh...after we saw those two fuckin’ twins upload that video onto ECHOnet, Brick built a little cairn right outside the ‘Crunk Bunny’ post. Ava and Tannis came over a few days ago to leave some flowers, damn nice ones too.”

Finally, Brick broke the solemn silence. He raised his teacup, which looked like a mini toy in his gigantic hands. “Drink to the fallen.” He toasted.

They all raised their wacky-looking mugs in unison and drank deeply. Save for him. He simply held the cup up to his helmet and let the fog steam up the visor. 

“So, Zer0. Buddy. Friend. Tell us about Maliwan.” Tina downed her drink and wiped the last bit off her chin, “How did it go?”

“As any war would.”

“You gotta tell us more than that!” Tina pouted a little, her expression now shifting to an intense stare bent on digging all the juicy secrets out of the stoic assassin before her. “I heard there were space lasers!”

Before he could answer, the shrill wail of Claptrap upstairs interrupted any coherent train of thought he had.

“ _Minioooon! Free me!!”_

Mordecai muttered bitterly to himself as he trudged up the stairs unwillingly.

“There _were_ lasers, yes.” He confirmed, “But I played no part in that, I was on a hunt.”

“What about the new vault hunters? Did you like them? They were _cool_ , weren’t they?!”

“Zane is an old friend, Fl4k is obsessed with his hunt, the siren...punched me.”

“What about Moze?”

“Moze is...ferocious. I adore her tech a lot, can you build me one?”

Tina laughed and shook her head. Even if she _is_ a prodigy at explosives, building Iron Bear is a little far-fetched for her right now. His face plate showed a **:(** which quickly faded away.

…

“All I’m sayin’ is, there shouldn’t be a damn reason for them to _not_ get married on Pandora!” Mordecai waved his bottle of rakkale around, a thin veil of drunkenness slurring his words.

“Yeah, but they ain’t got dat big-ass monster there…” Tina interjected, still fiddling with her set of dice.

“So what? Pandora’s got plenty ‘a monsters.” Mordecai gestured to Brick, who was looking a little hurt, “Like him. Why you gotta find one that’s dead? Ain’t live ones more fun?”

Brick looked wistful, “I wish I coulda punched it. Before whatever the hell it was, y’know, died.

“Hammerlock favours the strange and the exotic, perhaps he grew bored.” He chimed in.

Claptrap sighed a little too loudly for anyone’s liking. Tina stuck out her foot from under the table and kicked the little robot over, flipping him onto his side.

“Just because the conversation isn’t about you, doesn’t mean you get to complain.” She stated briskly. Claptrap helplessly flailed and struggled to get up, but having a single wheel doesn’t do much for his mobility. He looked down at the hapless robot, amused.

“Maybe I’ll take you with me to Atlas someday, Rhys can fix you up.”

He saw the other three fleshy humans’ eyes lit up with sparks of hope. He didn’t want to promise too much - Rhys with his business empire still in pieces and Maliwan fresh in mind, might not want to handle something as troublesome as the CL4P-TP that just _wouldn’t_ shut up. He wanted to argue Ellie’s Scrapyard might be a better destination for the robot, but decided against voicing his opinion.

…

“But you _have_ to pick!” Tina whined, “It’s the rules!”

He crossed his arms callousedly, looking as distant as possible. “I am not choosing to fuck Hammerlock _or_ Zed. I’d just kill Marcus.”

“What have you got against ammunition man, ninja?” Brick teased him, “He sells the shooty things that kill stuff for us! All kinds of them, too!”

“He’s shrewd and greedy, hoarding money like a rat. I’m broke thanks to him.”

Tina barked out a loud laugh.

“Alright, alright. My turn.” Mordecai asserted his place at the table by sliding his empty bottle down. The stoic hunter who was originally scoffing the game as “childish” and “pointless” was now as invested as Tina and Brick were. “Ask away, Zer0.”

He thought about his options for a moment.

“Shade, Scooter, Claptrap.”

The only thing keeping Mordecai’s eyeballs from popping out of his skull in fury was his stupid pair of goggles.

“You, me, tomorrow at Thousand Cuts.” He heard the hunter challenge him with alcohol-infused indignation, “Winner gets the other’s gun.”

“Deal.”

***

Weeks later, he was back on Promethea. A grinning Rhys greeted him happily in the Atlas company lobby.

“Zer0! Glad to have you back.” The CEO rubbed his cybernetic and his flesh hands together, “How was Pandora?”

He didn’t answer, just turned away and marched straight for his quarters. Rhys, sensing something was wrong, nervously hurried alongside him.

“Woah, woah. You _did_ get to see your vault hunter buddies, right? Didn’t you want to...?”

“I lost.” He spat out through gritted teeth.

He didn’t come out of his room until Rhys _begged_ him to try out the new cryo sniper rifle prototype, and promised to give the first working model to him that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I try to keep my stories as canon as possible, and that means extracting what I could of Zer0 and his personality from the gaming dialogues and (very scarce) histories we know of him. I haven't done literary analysis this intense since existentialist nihilism and Eugene Ionesco! Anyways, from what I gathered, Zer0 is A LOT LESS sophisticated than he'd like us to think...he's a total dork.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK! Crack chapter, new stuff, and I'm trying out a new writing format. Time jumps around a lot in this fic, so this is set during Borderlands 2. Will be back to normal as soon as I get over AP testing season :P  
> Also, f*ck Claptrap, the Statuesque quest took me three tries to get through, all the while that little nagging robot screamed for me to protect the overseer.

“I bet you can’t hit it.” Axton said, grinning as he put down his iron sights.

“I bet that I can.” Zer0 simply retorted, not looking up from cleaning the muzzle of his rifle.

“I know you’re good but...a guy’s got to have his limits, right?” There’s that cocky tone again, one Zer0  _ really _ wanted to knock out of Axton’s windpipe.

“Your limits aren’t mine, give it another ten years - maybe you’ll catch up.”

Axton was displeased by this jab, he huffed out a breath thick with cigar smoke, and leaned further back into their rocky perch atop The Dust. He squinted in an attempt to avoid the painful Pandoran sun, and watched the bandit technical headhunter in question kick up a rolling storm of sand as it chased after several skags. Black dots swam in the edge of his vision, whether that's a trick of the fierce sunlight or a few prowling buzzards was of no concern to him. His silent companion slid the barrel into place with a loud  _ click _ , and he watched the assassin reassemble the rifle deftly under a few seconds.

Axton was feeling a little jealous, 10 years of Dahl military service, and he still couldn’t hope to match the dexterity of his teammates. Maybe he  _ is _ getting old, as Tiny Tina said.

There’s one way to repair his broken ego: let Zer0 stumble at something, anything. He’s seen the man bleed, so by this point he was 80% certain Zer0 doesn’t have a little aimbot installed in his android head.

“Marcus told me about a gun, y’know. A  _ cursed _ gun.” He casually mumbled into thin air.

At that moment he could’ve sworn Zer0 tightened up like a switch had been flipped. He was doing his best to act nonchalant, but Axton could see how Zer0’s no longer focused on testing his rifle anymore - he’s hooked.

Now for the line and sinker.

“If you’re really as good as you say, I’ll tell you where to look for it.”

Zer0 knew he was walking into the commando’s trap, but he couldn’t possibly be bothered with whatever implications that would bring, all he could focus on in his little foggy, gun-crazed brain was the mention of a  _ new gun _ . And damn it, he’s all in.

“First one to hit the pilot in that buzzard wins.” Axton gave him the terms of the competition, “No elemental weapons, no slag, just good ol’ bullets.”

Zer0 pulled out his Jakobs rifle, “Deal.”

Axton knew he couldn’t possibly match Zer0 at gunplay - he himself was trained to unjam a Dahl assault rifle, reload both empty and half-empty magazines, and hopefully hit something if he aimed down sights long enough, but he’s not going to compete with the assassin-in-residence. It doesn’t mean he’s out, he’s just not firing anything by  _ himself _ .

He watched Zer0 line up a sight by using his knees as support for the rifle. He almost wanted to laugh, watching the string bean fold in half like a lawn chair and tuck his knees into his chest.

“On your mark.” Zer0 said softly, hands steadying his scope.

Axton knew he couldn’t win this without cheating, but is it really cheating if he never specified the terms and conditions beforehand? Zer0 couldn’t possibly blame him for being intentionally vague, right? Plus, it’s the guy’s own fault for not seeing this sooner; for an assassin, Zer0 seems terribly gullible at times when it comes to fair matches and honour.

“Five, four-”

Before he finished counting down, Axton threw out his sabre turret. In less than a split second its talons clung to the rocky cliffside and its auto-guided machine guns went to work. His little lady spun in the direction of the swooping buzzard and he heard the whir of the bullet belt churning out rounds inside the turret.

In almost slow motion, he watched the barrels of his prized turret spin as the string bean next to him realized what was happening.  _ Too late now _ , Axton grinned triumphantly. Zer0 was going to lose.

In all their time of slaughtering together, Axton always underestimated the indignant fury that got the assassin out of so many tough spots before. Before the turret’s barrels had a chance to hum its deadly song, Zer0’s single hand wielding the katana had plunged the blade into his precious little mistress, severing the joint it rotated on. His other hand swung the Jakobs rifle up towards the buzzard roaming the skies and fired. The turret beeped miserably in its decapitated state, then fizzled into blue pixels before a wide-eyed Axton.

Zer0 tossed down his sniper, watching the now pilot-less buzzard spiral uncontrollably in all its flaming glory. The loud  _ crash _ reverberating throughout the desert announced to every single bandit camp that flying high isn’t such a good idea anymore.

Axton was still crouched near where his sabre turret deconstructed, in absolute awe and horror at the audacity of Zer0’s barbaric act. It took him several tries to get through the stunned stutter, and finally managed to choke out:

“Zer0, what the  _ fuck! _ ”

“What the fuck indeed.” The monotone droned near him, he could  _ really _ punch the smugness out of Zer0 right now.  _ Screw this _ , the bet is off, his little lady had been hurt by none other than the helmeted jackass flashing a  **:|** at him right now.

“Great, now it’s all busted up! I don’t even know if I can fix it. Zer0, listen, you son of a bitch, if Gaige can’t fix my sweetheart up-”

“I’ll get a new one from the Dahl establishments.” Zer0 promised, “Just like what you had.”

“What? This isn’t something you can just replace!” Axton protested, waving his arms in a gesture of anger, “Look, if I snapped that damn sword you love so much, and just up and say ‘I’ll get you a new one’-”

“Don’t get too attached, it’s unbecoming for you. A gun is a gun.”

Axton plopped back down onto the rocky grounds as he realized the futility in arguing with Zer0. Still, flames of anger burned heavily in him. He hatefully glared at Zer0, who seemed impervious to all sorts of nasty looks.

“You cheated, Axton, now tell me about that gun. Before I kill you.”

Well now, Axton wasn’t going to ignore that  _ very _ thinly veiled threat. But because he’s bloody Axton, and because he never learned to keep his damn mouth shut, he  _ just _ had to take a look at Zer0’s arm and ask:

“What’s up with your arm?”

It was obvious what happened to it: when Zer0 fired that Jakobs rifle, the recoil dislocated his elbow. It was bent at an odd angle and sticking out uncomfortably. Axton felt some semblance of peace as he noticed how much the assassin’s pride had cost him.

“Gun kick.”

Thought so. Still, he’d better hurry up with his words if he doesn’t want to test Zer0’s patience. Hopefully, the gun was just a rumor, and he’d have this cocky son of a bitch chasing empty rumors all across the plains of Pandora. That’d make up for busting his little lady.

***

“I’m so  _ fucking _ done.” Zer0 muttered into his ECHO device, “Marcus got me chasing logs all over the place.”

And he was chasing logs like a skag after a frisbee. The ECHO logs of deranged bandits driven to insanity by the supposed gun led him from one end of The Dust to the other, then through the sweaty hot air of Lynchwood. He stared down at the excavated grave before him, where the Bane lay peacefully with a shimmering purple hue from eridium waste.

“So much for the curse.” He muttered to himself before picking up the gun.

_ Immediately _ something felt off. It was like the gun was made of pure lead. Even his heaviest Vladof sniper rifles with scopes added on haven’t weighed him down this much. It was not just the gun - it felt as if there was an entire forcefield on him, crushing him into the ground. He looked at the innocently glistening purple barrel, hoping the damage would make his trip worth it. The loud rumbling of armored skags riding towards him alerted him to the presence of Lynchwood’s finest law enforcement. Time to try it out.

He pressed down hard on the trigger, and with the hail of bullets he unleashed on the marshals, there was a loud, piercing cry from deep inside the gun’s barrel.

_ “YEAHYEAHYEAHYEAHYEAHYEAHYEAHYEAHYEAHYEAH!!” _

He almost tossed the gun away that instant.  _ Fuck that _ , he’s still got his shiny new Maliwan sniper rifle, he could go back digging on Eden-6 for a new Jakobs, forget about Bane. Forget about this stupid gun and this curse, there’s no way he’d destroy his dignity with a gun like this.

But he didn’t. He held onto it because deep down, he had hoped Amplified Bane could fetch a good price from Marcus.

He should’ve gotten rid of it then and there.

***

Axton kicked his feet up on the front seats of the bandit technical, which Zer0 wasn’t too happy about. The man’s military boots dripped mud and sludge down his pristine suit as they sped across the Highlands towards Opportunity. He shuffled uncomfortably in his clothes.

“Get your feet off me. Do you even wash these things? You smell just like Sal.”

Axton made a shrug motion from his very cozy and definitely not intentionally exaggerated to piss off Zer0 position.

“Don’t hate the man, Zer0, hate the life.” The commando drawled, “Hate the life.”

“I already do.”

Their designated driver swerved brutally to avoid slamming into the fast travel station, causing Axton’s entire body to lose balance and roll across the backseats. A moment after their screeching halt, Maya popped out from the driver’s seat with her SMG loaded.

“For someone who grew up in a monastery,” came Axton’s weak protest from behind the seats, “You drive with no virtues at all.”

She glared at him from behind messy electric blue hair, her gaze clearly saying “I’ve been listening to you two idiots for half an hour, if you say one more word I would  _ not _ hesitate to hurl you into space”.

Axton made a zipping his mouth shut motion and held up his hands, seemingly satisfied with his reaction, Maya smirked at him just a little before jumping out and keying in their destination.

“Who’s ready to wreck somd Jack statues?”

Axton whooped and cheered, Zer0 projected a  **> :-]** from his helmet.

…

“ _ Where the fuck are these constructors coming from?” _ Axton screamed over the pure mayhem playing out around him.

They had been fighting for  _ hours _ . Claptrap’s brilliant plan of hacking an overseer bot and letting it cut down Jack’s statues might have worked, if not for the hordes of loader bots and soldiers Hyperion is pouring out at them right now. Axton’s newly fixed turret was looking more busted-up than ever, with its scorching hot barrels churning weakly while the bullet belt cycled its last reserve of ammo. The rounds ricocheting off his precious little lady made Axton wince each time he heard the  _ clang _ and  _ bang _ . Maya’s siren powers were almost dry, her tattoos pulsated dimly as she Phaselocked one loader after another, tossing them into each other or into the sabre turret’s line of fire. Her SMG was running out of ammo as she unloaded entire clips into the Constructor, adn with a final, definitive  _ click _ , she’s officially out of ammo.

Zer0 was dodging gunfire left and right as deftly as he could. Close quarters makes him itch, as he couldn’t find a decent perch in Opportunity to line up a sniper shot. His katana was coated in machine grease and sticky red blood. He faded in and out of the battle with each second counting down on his Decepti0n device, his steady rifle shots only punctuated by the death gurgles of Hyperion engineers and loader bots.

“How many of these are there?” Maya called out, distraught. She ducked just in time for a surveyor to fly directly in Zer0’s face. With the last bit of crackling electricity fizzing out, the surveyor slid off the assassin’s sword.

“Tell that damn robot to please,  _ please _ , for its own good - hurry the  _ fuck _ up.”

Just then their ECHOs blared with Claptrap’s voice, “Protect the bot, minion!”

“What do you think we’re doing?!” Maya roared into her comm piece, then turned to face Zer0, “This can’t go on forever, we’ve gotta refuel. The sabre turret is almost dead too.”

“Go get Axton now, I saw an ammo vendor near the offices.”

“But what about you-”

“I have my sword.”

Maya nodded, then darted off for Axton while calling out his name. Just as Zer0 turned his eyes away from her to parry an incoming loader bot, he felt a surge of pain and electricity shoot through his muscles as a surveyor swooped down at him. His injured arm from his shootout with Axton felt like it was on fire. The burst of pain forced him to drop his sword and duck out of the way as the surveyor dive-bombed at him again.  _ Crap _ .

He knew he shouldn’t have trusted Zed when the good doctor assured him the dislocated elbow will heal in no time.

He pulled out his sniper rifle and clicked,  _ empty _ . He slammed the muzzle into the flying surveyor bot like it was a baseball, and watched it fly into an incoming GUN Loader. He fished for his Maliwan pistol,  _ empty _ , then his Jakobs revolver,  _ empty. _

Crap.

Well...there  _ is  _ one more gun he forgot to try. He swore he’d sell it to Marcus as soon as he stepped foot into Sanctuary, but with his sword and guns all gone, there was really nothing else he could fall back onto.

He pulled out his Amplified Bane, aimed down at a loader, and fired.

Both Maya and Axton halted involuntarily at the shrill voice of the gun calling “ _ Ratatatatata!!!” _ as Zer0 peppered the Hyperion engineers with slagged bullets. Through the flaming sparks of the gun, he could’ve sworn he saw Maya mouth a “ _ what the f- _ ” before Axton noticed the gun he’s using.

“Holy crap! I told you it’s real, Maya! I told you!” He jumped up and down like a five-year-old in an overgrown military man’s body.

Maya’s look of utter disbelief simply signaled to both Axton and Zer0 that she couldn’t think of any of her usual witticisms for this situation. She squeezed Zer0 a tight smile, and dragged Axton off to the nearest ammo station.

He took a moment to collect himself, the forcefield still pressing down on his shoulders hard. The Hyperion engineers stopped their shooting for a brief second, one of them glared at him through his goggles with an incredulous look. He sighed deeply.

“Yeah, I know.” He said before firing a hail of bullets again at the engineers. This time, the gun’s shouts were overwhelmed by the wailing and screaming enemies around him.

***

They stood before the fast travel station, each looking as wrecked as the smoking piles of dead loaders around them. Maya wiped down her forehead and smudged bits of blood over her nose. She twisted her face in an expression of disgust, “Ew.”

Axton’s irritating smirk was back, “So you really  _ did _ find the gun, huh.”

Zer0 snarled, “I can guarantee it was  _ not _ worth it at all, you can have it now.”

He tossed the gun towards the commando, who caught it deftly midair and was now examining it intently. Axton raised it to eye level, tested out the grip, then fired a few rounds into the corpse of a loader beneath them.

_ “Bang bang bang bang bang boom!!” _

Axton grinned a bit sheepishly, “You’re right, it’s pretty dumb.”

“I can only pray no one filmed me using it,” Zer0 interjected, “It would ruin my life.”

“Well then, life ruined.” Maya playfully punched him in the arm, she was looking less banged-up now that she had several insta-healths from a med vendor, “Jack’s got surveillance and cams all over the place, you think he didn’t catch a footage of you using the Bane on tape?”

His shoulders sagged in a very visible response of “I’m fucked”.

Finally, he gathered up the strength to speak again, “I want it gone,  _ now _ .”

“But to whom?” Axton stopped keying in their destination on the fast travel station and looked quizzically at the assassin, “I doubt Marcus would want it now that it’s got a reputation as a cursed gun. He couldn’t possibly sell it-”

Maya smirked, “I think I know  _ juuuuust _ the right person.”

***

Crazy Earl snapped the door shut as soon as the gun left Zer0’s hands. He looked down at it for a moment, sized up the exquisite eridium markings, and hurried inside. From where they were standing, Maya, Axton and Zer0 could all hear loud clanging from whatever Earl was doing. Then, the little window peeled open just enough for Earl to toss out a single piece of eridium.

“Git’ this to your crazy science lady.” He barked at them, “And don’t come back!”  
Maya looked at the other two, couldn’t help but feeling amused, “One gun for one piece of eridium, not bad.”

“Well, let’s hope he puts it to good use.” Axton smiled, picking up the shiny purple material, “I think Tannis would like to have this.”

Zer0 nodded, then followed along as they returned to the Crimson Raider HQ.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this fic, leave a comment. It really helps motivate my lazy ass to write more. Also check out my other fics :3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been super busy with AP testing and finals and stuff, but now I have time!  
> More stories of Zer0 and his weirdness, yay!

As the rest of the Crimson Lance cleared out the smoking remains of the Maliwan bots and troopers, Moze felt her entire body melt into a puddle from the stress. She exhaled deeply and sank into one of the benches, with scorch marks and bullet dents still hot to the touch. But Moze couldn’t care less, she’s way too tired for that.

Somewhere off in the distance, she saw Amara dust off her jacket. Her siren arms’ ethereal glow fading into nothingness. The brawler kicked a busted-up Maliwan helmet high into the air, and watched it roll down the steps with sharp metallic echoes.

“So much for the mighty Maliwan Corporation,” Amara scoffed, “They felt like paper under my fists.”

Moze stretched herself across the bench, the battle adrenaline  _ just _ fading from her. In the distance she could hear Atlas dropships zapping into the zone with supplies and med-evac.

“That...wasn’t the full power of the company.” Moze mused, “That was just what Katagawa had under his command - and he was only head of mergers.”

“-And acquisitions.” a cold voice chimed in behind them, Moze shivered. She saw the armor-clad ninja fizzle out of thin air and came up to them, his helmet decorated with new scratches.

“Zer0!” Amara called, coming up to greet him, “Glad you didn’t turn on us.”

“I put my honour before corporate profits, such was my promise.”

Moze rolled her eyes.

“Coulda done with a warning, buddy.” She mumbled, fishing around in her jacket for a cigar, “You got a smoke?”

Both Amara and him shook their heads. Moze smiled a little sheepishly.

“Vladof habits,” She explained, “helps keep me calm.”

“Well,” Amara turned her gaze to the small fleet of Crimson Lance now evacuating the city and civilians, “We’ve got all the calm in the world now, Katagawa’s good as dead.”

WIth that, she plopped down onto a bench near Moze, her legs propped up on the chassis of a broken Maliwan Oversphere.

“Which reminds me, Zer0,” Moze frowned, “How  _ did _ he copy your suit?”

The assassin deigned not to answer. Amara crossed her arms disapprovingly.

“Well?” The siren quirked an eyebrow at him, “Does Rhys have anything to say about it?”

“He will recover - not the first time he dodged death by a few inches.”

“Yeah, but he seemed pretty shaken up.”

**:/** . “That I couldn’t say. He will let me keep my job, because he  _ has to _ .”

Moze chuckled at this remark. She laced her fingers behind her head and leaned way back to bask in the warm Promethean sun, “I like the way you think. Just don’t stick around too long - or you might end up like I did.”

A nod from him, “Darzaran Bay.”

Her eyes widened, “Was it  _ that _ obvious?”

“Only survivor, equipped with an Iron Bear. I am not blind, Moze.”

“You still have that Vladof tattoo on your hip.” Amara helpfully added. Moze pouted, she had gotten it on her initiation day with a healthy dose of alcohol to get past the fear of needles. She never understood her own fear of pointy things, whether it be needles or exploding bees.

“Fuck those bees.” She muttered out loud to no one in particular.

“Please don’t.” Amara reacted quickly, “What bees?”

“Exploding bees.” Moze said matter-of-factly, “The ones you see on Themis? There’s a buzz, then a _boom_. Worst things ever.”  
“I think my personal trainer ranks pretty high on that list,” Amara contested, “Especially on _leg days_.”

Moze chuckled at that.

“Can you believe that Fl4k is afraid of tapioca? They call themselves the ‘Emissary of Mistress Death’, and freak out at a pudding.”

He projected a  **> _< ** at the mention of tapioca. Before the other two vault hunters could catch on to his fears, he quickly shifted the topic.

“Zane is scared of birds. A hitman such as himself, fears chicken nuggets.”

Amara’s eyes went wide, “So that’s why when we eat he never-”

“I am  _ so _ using this as leverage,” Moze fell into mad laughing fits with streams of tears running down her face, “Oh  _ man. _ The look on his  _ face- _ ”

“Zer0, what are you afraid of?”

The question caught him off guard. He turned to see the siren fold her arms across her chest, staring at him intently. The gunner was still snickering at the revelation of Zane’s phobias, but she was waiting for an answer as well.

He began, “I do not know fear-”

Moze jammed a finger in his face, “No, no. None of that ‘fearless badass’ bullshit. Fl4k is afraid of stuff, and he’s a  _ robot _ ! You’ve gotta give me an answer, and I won’t take the philosophical crap either. I want a straight answer.”

He’s sure the other two heard him sigh in resignation through the helmet. His brain cycled through about a dozen suitable answers before he settled on one that couldn’t possibly be used as a bargaining chip against him.

“Lorelei.”

Moze looked as if she was about to explode. Amara just blue-screened in the middle of their conversation.

“Oh, Zer0. We’re taking you to No Roast For the Wicked,  _ right now _ .” Moze said, a wicked grin spreading across her face.

***

The two vault hunters giggled as they shoved him in the general direction of the Crimson Lance commander, who was now busy barking orders at the rest of her task force to carry crates of supplies off the Atlas dropships. She whirled around on her heels to face the tall assassin, hands on her hips and a charitable smile on her face.

“Zer0! Good to have you back again. I’m just organizing these - oh, wait, Rhys told me to give you this.” She held out a stack of little shiny paper slips.

He carefully took them, “What are these?”

“He said…” Lorelei scratched her head, trying to remember, “These are for the new Lazy River Land? Anyways, he wanted the new vault hunters to have them too.”

Amara and Moze each gingerly took a slip, then a few more, presumably for Fl4k and Zane.

He looked down at the stupid little shiny ticket, with the cartoony version of a baby ratch in Atlas colours printed on. There’s a little speech bubble right next to it, saying in bright bold letters “ **_Bring your friends too!_ ** ”.

“Unbelievable. Rhys has too much to rebuild, and he starts with this?”

“The frogurt place is next,” Lorelei said with a smile, “He said all the vault hunters get to add a flavour to the new menu.

Moze scrunched up her nose, “Judging by that guy’s taste in frogurt flavours...I don’t think he’ll like what  _ normal people _ have to add.”

“Don’t slap it until you try it!” Lorelei chided gently, then added with a wink, “Chocolate dill pickle is still better than vanilla bacon zingerberry.”

Amara made a disgusted noise. Her ECHO beep alerted her to an incoming message from Zane and Fl4k as both of their big heads took up the entire screen. Judging by the constant whirring of an engine they’re probably aboard Sanctuary III.

“If you’re quite done with that Atlas business,” The Irishman shouted through the speakers, “Come on back, we got the vault key fragment from that Rhysie boy.”

_Thunk._ Fl4k’s head bumped into Zane’s when the ship’s hull groaned with a tremor, the hole that was previously filled in by Claptrap’s ass was now thoroughly patched up, but it’s apparent Sanctuary III needs a good once-over . Zane rubbed at the spot on his head and turned to glare at Fl4k.

“As Mistress Death’s personal emissary upon this wasteland,” Fl4k ignored the operative’s seething fury, “I’m pleased to inform you that Meat Thief will be accompanying us to Eden-6. Now make haste, Mr. Chew is getting impatient and he’s drooling all over Zane’s boots.”

“Get your fecking skag off my damn clothes!”

With a  _ click _ , the feed cut off.

Moze and Amara shrugged at each other before the siren gave a meaningful pat on his shoulder, the gunner followed suit with a wink. They went off tottering their guns towards the next vault key fragment. He turned to look at a very confused Lorelei.

“So, is there any particular reason you wanted to talk to me?” She began awkwardly, “Or…?”

***

“So you cut off his head?” She laughed, willing her coffee not to spill from her commander cup.

“Yup. With a crab fork.”

Lorelei laughed heartily, “Did I tell you about the time I scooped out a guy’s throat?”

His eyes went wide under his helmet, “No, you never told me that. Please elaborate-”

Lorelei picked up a little silvery spoon from the counter nearby, it still had traces of milk from when she stirred in her coffee.

“I was still working here as a barista when that happened,” She gestured with the spoon, “It was before we opened up one day…”

…

“...And by the time the pot of water was boiling, he was begging for me to stop.” 

He sat up straighter, urging her to continue her story. Lorelei took another sip from her long-since cold coffee.

“So of course I took his other hand out of the coffee grinder, but still, not gonna get those fingers back any time soon!” She narrated cheerfully, “But yeah, he still had that pistol and I just saw this scoop lying on the counter - here, like this -”

She mimicked snatching up the scoop with one hand in a quick motion, some Crimson Lance soldiers have stopped to take a break and listen to her stories.

“And that tosser was standing right over there, his buddies drove off in their getaway car already, so it was just me and him. And I was just gonna teach him a lesson, maybe? I don’t know what I was  _ thinking _ \- because people are a lot squishier than they look!”

Lorelei paused to take a breath, the spoon she was wielding had scared off two or three of the Lance who were paying attention.

“It was like...like a meat shower.” She gestured, “Well, more blood than meat really, but it was really sticky and got into my morning pot of coffee and we were due to open any minute-”

“And?”

“I scared off all the early customers.” She said, shoulder slumping.

He didn’t remark on that, just listened.

“So? What have you got to tell?” She turned to face him, “You’re wanted in at least five central planets - what kind of stunts did you pull to get  _ that _ reputation?”

…

“...I shoved a grenade in him, just as a failsafe.”

Lorelei’s eyes went wide with wonder.

“In his mouth or in his chest?”

“Through the bullet hole.” He confirmed, “Heard his ribs go  _ crack _ and  _ snap _ , kind of like cookies.”

She nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I’ve heard that sound once or twice. Remember the time we got caught between a group of CoV and Maliwan bots? And how you found one of Katagawa’s ‘pleasure-spheres’? I still got that whole carnage on tape.”

**:O** . “You didn’t.”

Lorelei laughed, “Yeah, I did. I think Rhys would want to see it too. He’s already scared enough after seeing your wanted posters issued by 3 separate companies, why not give him another reason to be afraid?”

“Killing those soldiers was a part of my contract,”  **:/** , “Granted, it was fun.”

“I never thought I’d get to see a man drown in lubricant,” She smiled to herself, kicking her feet up on the table, “But you made that happen.”

“Oh, you flatter me. I enjoyed that little stunt you pulled with a gun.”

“Good times.”

Lorelei reached for her commander coffee cup and gestured for a refill, only to find the station unmanned and the Crimson Lance soldiers too terrified to heat up the rest of the drink. She rolled her eyes and got up to refill it herself.

“Coffee is your vice,” He remarked, as the commander took greedy gulps of the boiling hot beverage, “How were you coping before you discovered it?”

She took the time to scoff at his disapproval before taking another gulp, “Drugs.”

“Seriously?”

“Only for a little bit,” Lorelei frowned, “I had to switch to something stronger after that.”

He didn’t want to further question what the woman put in her coffee. 

“What’s your vice, huh? Zer0? Don’t pretend you’re immune to some earthly wants now and then.”

“I like killing things.”

Of course, that seems to be his  _ only _ hobby. His lesser ones include methodically examining and polishing his weapons, and interrupting bandit headball tournaments by hijacking their buzzards.

“Everyone on Pandora likes killing things.” Another eye-roll directed at him.

“I like it  _ more _ than they do. It’s my way of life.”

“Booooring.”

He didn’t contest that, just held up his cup of coffee to his mask and let the fog steam up his visor. Suddenly, his ECHO buzzed to life with the distinct  _ ping _ of an incoming voice message. From the timestamp, apparently Rhys had been listening in on their conversation.

“Zer0, man, we gotta get you a hobby.”

***

After the Destroyer along with its parasitic queen fell dead across the Pandoran plains, and the firehawk sigil burned itself into the fiery moon. All was settled.

It was unbecoming of him, to say the least. He’s a deadly intergalactic assassin, a cold-blooded killer polished by years of slaughter and bloodshed. He knows no rest and no kindness, needs no mercy nor pity, just a loaded gun and a target. He’s trained to be the most brutally efficient murder machine among  _ all _ the planets, he’s-

Losing at a game of Oligopoly.

Rhys had explained the rules to him before: you try to get as much money as possible by buying everything on the map, then you try and make your opponents bankrupt so they get kicked out of the game.

A dozen dice rolls later, he’s holding no more than a measly sum of $200 in his hands. The assassin sat cross-legged on the cold steel floor of Sanctuary III’s crew quarters, holding a little stack of shiny fake money in his gloved hands. Next to him, Rhys slumped in a pile of makeshift beanbags. Zane was trying to chat up Lorelei and not missing out on mocking Zer0 for his clumsiness at the same time.

“So, like I said - you’re welcome to visit the Southern Shelf anytime, kill some bandits, set fire to my brother’s ship, enjoy the Flynt’s hospitality!”

Zane was no way near tipsy, Zer0 knew the man could hold more alcohol than the entire ocean. But he watched with keen interest as his operative friend feigned some stagger in his steps just to throw his arm around Lorelei, who was innocently oblivious to the man’s attempts.

“But I thought you hated your brothers?”

“That’s why you’re invited!” Zane exclaimed, almost spilling his drink. In the distance, Moxxi frowned at her rowdy patron. Even if liquor tastes fiercer in space, Zane had no reason to be hogging the bar 24/7. Deep down he knew it was just a stunt to get closer to Lorelei.

He drew his attention back to the game, where Rhys was kicking his ass all across the board.

“This is no fair match,” He complained, “You’re a businessman by trade, this is your homefield.”

Rhys gestured to his stack of fake currency piling high next to his deeds and estates, “Oh, come on, Zer0. Don’t tell me you’re gonna quit?”

He  _ was _ thinking about quitting, going back to his quarters and attending to the bounties he had put out on some bandit lords. But somehow Rhys’s pouting sounded like a taunt to him, and he could never stand taunts. He shook his head firmly, then delved back into the game.

A while later he managed to wrestle back a few buildings from the clutches of the Atlas CEO, but his staggering bills put him in a perilous position.

“This game reminds me of a certain rich jackass. You aside, of course.”

“Gee, thanks.” Rhys said.

His head swiveled to where a legitimately tipsy Lorelei was recounting her stories of disemboweling a Maliwan heavy armed with nothing but a tube of mascara. Zane’s expression was a mix between horrified and intrigued, his own telltale sheepish grin gave away any semblance of sobriety he hoped to achieve. Lorelei’s story continued slowly, sometimes being interrupted under Zane’s insistence that she tell him again  _ how the feck did she blow up a cruiser in under 30 seconds. _

He eyed Rhys, who was scheming his own next move. A smug grin hid under his atrocious moustache, the mischievous look that the assassin found oddly endearing: it’s not something that would appear on Katagawa or Handsome Jack’s face. If only he could get rid of that stupid moustache…

Amara and Moze’s laughter from nearby interrupted his train of thought. The two strode into their common area with their hands around each other, and giddy from some stupid revelation. Moze waved around a glossy envelope in her hand.

“Hammerlock invited us all!” She called out in Zane’s general direction, “Said he’s getting married.”

The operative’s eyes went wide, “That old geezer-”

“To Wainwright, no less.” Amara grinned a satisfied grin, “Two old geezers.”

Rhys seemed to ponder the name for a second, or maybe he was cheating by searching things up with his ECHO eye. Finally he said, “That’s the guy that makes all your favourite guns, right?”

“No, his father was. But if Hammerlock chose him, I trust his judgement.”

“Don’t you want to go to Xylourgos? See a huge tentacle monster, hunt some eldritch abominations?” Rhys urged.

“It’s fucking cold there. What do you people call it? - ‘Freezes your balls off’.”

“Whatever floats your boat, man.” Rhys added, trying to conceal his giddiness at keeping his best bro around for longer.

And with that, Zer0 landed himself in jail once again. His helmet flickered on with a single “ **FML** ”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok guys, I just really have to say this...why the fuck does everyone's unmasked version of Zer0 look more or less the same??  
> He's like Thane Krios, but...wetter. Or Garrus Vakarian with a smaller head, wtf? Everyone describes him as having some kind of greyish skin with iridescent glow, multiple eyes - either fully black or a weird ass colour. Then he's got sharp teeth and layers of chitin or some bullshit. Is making him an alien really the best way to justify how he acts? And why do writers give him implausible emoticons? (a "thumbs up"??)  
> And haikus are 5-7-5! Not 3-5-3 or 5-6-7 or some other combination. Seriously, it's not hard.  
> I'm not saying I'm the best writer or putting your work down, I've found some genuinely good stuff on AO3, but can we write Zer0's relationships without taking off ALL the edge and making him a sickeningly saccharine ball of sugar? He's a goddamn assassin.  
> Ok, that's my rant. Don't pay it too much mind, but it's just been bugging me for a while whenever I start writing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I'm picking up this fic again after so long! What can I say? I love the Borderlands franchise¯\\_(ツ)_/¯.  
> Anyways, I'm not exactly clear on when this story happened. Let's just say it's during Zer0's younger days, around his first visit to Pandora. When he was far more naive and reckless about his line of work, which brings some...consequences.

It’s about damn time he realized he bit off more than he can chew.

But he was just so arrogant, so cocky, riding on the glory of his last success and thinking he can take on the whole planet.

He should’ve never felt that way.

Two days ago a client from Themis requested his audience, on account of some enterprising businessman, seeking to establish a foothold in the wilder parts of the galaxy. As per usual, he only paid 30% attention during their meeting and filtered for the more important details - a name, an address, affiliations and allegiances.

He paused that train of thought when his client expressed that the target is a group of people.

“How many?” He drawled lazily, not bothering to form a full haiku.

“20, 30-ish. Bandit holdover from old Dahl military forts. We need to clear the place out for...renovations.”

He cracked open an eyelid to scrutinize his customer, though it made little difference under his jet-black helmet that betrayed no expressions.

“Why not Ursa Corps? Better yet - just bomb them all. I’m outnumbered there.”

The deep wrinkles running down the client’s face twitched. The man’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“If you’re afraid, then I can certainly contact alternative-“

He stopped the client’s hands from pulling back the stack of down-payment on the table.

“Don’t _ever_ suggest I’m afraid of anything.”

The man managed a wry smile, befitting of his pallid face and clammy skin. However, he did remove his hand from the stack of dollar bills.

“Think of it as a challenge...a test to your skill and resolve. Not many people can boast they took out an entire bandit hive by themselves.”

“That’s just a Tuesday.” He retorted, “Where?”

A little red circle was drawn around The Dust on the crumpled map. He stared at it blankly, not looking forward to the scorching heat.

***

The old Dahlwell Oasis welcomes him with open arms, he thought it as such because the sand kept tugging at his boots and dragging him down. The sniper rifle on his shoulder was getting heavier by the minute, and the air filters in his helmet did little to alleviate him of the fiery sun above.

He selected a piece of rock jutting out from a cliff face, and scaled it with relative ease. Once he’s up there, he picked a nook between the rocks to bury himself as much as possible while leaving a line of sight into the bandit encampment.

The old Dahl military fort was overrun by bandits, as his client suggested. Ragged flags splattered with blood hung lifeless from old radar arrays. The bunker exterior was a clusterfuck of skulls - some with viscera clinging to the surface - and scavenged robot parts. He laid aside his sniper scope and shook his head, “renovating” will be a hell of a job here.

Still, he’s getting paid enough.

Click. _Bang_. The first shot from his precious Jakob’s rifle tore a malformed head clean off its misshapen shoulders. He took a moment to breathe in the camp’s confusion and horror before firing another shot.

Click. _Bang_. Another fine pink mist scattered in the air. The bandits scurried for their miserable pea shooters. He almost chuckled to himself.

A few marauders and nomads made their presence known, but his third shot quickly fixed that. Before the rest can catch on to where he’s firing from, he packed up his rifle and swiftly moved to another perch. Rinse and repeat.

By the time he cleared out half the camp, he was getting bored. That was, until his hammer fell on an empty chamber.

 _Click_.

He’d run out of rounds. He glanced through his scope again - a few stragglers left stalking the camp and searching for their invisible assailant. Sighing, he picked up his sword and made his way towards the camp.

A few midgets spotted him as soon as he came close, but before they could fire, he fizzled out in a bright burst of blue pixels, leaving a hologram behind. It was satisfying to swipe his blade across their necks and watch the fountain spurt high into the air.

The few remaining nomads and marauders began firing on him as soon as Decepti0n went offline. Cursing, he took cover behind some empty oil drums and checked his ammo.

Enough left in the smg for a few rounds of burst fire, nothing suppressive though. A full magazine in his Maliwan pistol, and that was it.

He didn’t need any more than that, he was certain of it.

The metal drums shook from bullets pelting them. He had to find a new cover, fast.

He eyed the few nomads firing at him from behind the cover - they’re quite a distance away, and if he makes a run for the concrete alcove just feet away, he would have time to recharge Decepti0n and take them out, one by one.

Besides, his shield can tank more than a few stray rounds from a meager buckshot. So with that in mind, he took off running.

 ** _Bang_ **!

His shield shattered to pieces before he even registered the pain. Bits of electrified barrier fizzled to nothing as he flew back from the force of the shot, landing squarely on his back and all wind knocked out of his lung. He looked down at his suit - torn beyond repair.

A while away, the bandits whooped and shouted. He distinctly remembered the nomad screaming.

_“Damn, son! This gun’s got some kick!”_

_How could…?_

His shield was fully charged, and he was so far away…?

In his pained and dazed state, he willed his head to move and caught a glimpse of the weapon the nomad held in his hands.

_Yellow and white…?_

It was a Hyperion rifle. _How the_ ** _fuck_ **_did a bandit get a Hyperion rifle?_

No time to contemplate. He scrambled to his feet and immediately felt the searing pain across his chest. He couldn’t afford to assess the damage right now. He needed to move.

The alcove blocked another surge of incoming fire from whatever weapons the bandits held. He was grateful for the temporary reprieve as he checked for injuries: a stray shot in his shoulder, the clothes around his abdomen was leaking crimson, and his left leg was terribly cold and numb. This is not something Anshin could fix for him.

_“Come out and play with me!”_

The nomad’s taunting sing-song tone scratched at his ears. He winced as heavy footfall approached the alcove, _thankfully he took out enough of them before running dry on ammo…_

The bandits didn’t register the little grenade bouncing towards them at first. But the collective explosive force from six Torgue child grenades were enough to send a message. He listened to their choked cries of pain, feeling somewhat satisfied.

Then it was dead quiet. He peeked from behind the alcove with his smg drawn-

-head on a swivel and checking for enemies-

**_BAM!_ **

It felt like someone punched him in the back with a car jack. He fell to the ground face-down and paralyzed with pain. From around him, more bandits poured out of the fortress, each holding a Hyperion gun.

“It’s a shame, really. I was expecting you to put up more of a fight.”

The familiar voice of the client sent chills down his spine. From his peripheral vision, a pair of rakk-hide shoes stepped into view.

“All it took to kill you was bad intel.” The man tsked, “And you still want a challenge?”

He gritted his teeth hard, biting down on the screaming nerves and summoned his hologram. His blade caught the neck of a bandit before a pistol handle made contact with the back of his head.

He fell again, still face-down in the dirt and more furious than ever. The client paced around him slowly.

“We needed someone to test out the weapons, and, well, someone to test it on. The bounty on your head is just icing on the cake in this scenario.”

The client circled him like a vulture and nudged his shield with the tip of those rakk-hide shoes.

“Flimsy.” The man remarked, “You weren’t preparing for a tough fight, were you?”

Up until six minutes ago, he had no reason to prepare for a tough fight. So he cursed the man out behind his teeth.

“Such a poor way to die,” the man mocked, “Bleeding out in the sand like a stray dog. Who would even know that this was Zer0 the assassin?”

He wanted to yell at the man, for him to shut the fuck up and go eat a firemelon. But his strength was gone. Even as the client ordered the bandits to haul his body onto the technical, he felt life draining out of him.

Then the ground began to shake.

The two bandits dropped him in shock, he landed with a soft “oof”. Groaning and rolling onto his back to see what happened.

Or rather, hear what happened.

Gigantic chitinous appendages emerged from underneath the sand, splitting the earth in half. The bandits dropped him and ran for cover. Before he could recover from the drop and the subsequent pain, the earth shook again.

He could hear panicked shouting all around him as the legs hoisted up a large, grotesque body covered in similar chitinous armor. The colossal spiderant emerged from underground with its brood, tearing apart the fortress and rampaging through the aged concrete structures.

Its army of spiderants went after the scattered bandits, some spewing fire and others belching eridium slag. Amidst the chaos he could hear the client scream out incoherent orders of attack, which no one heeded.

The queen spiderant strode up to the client, its mandibles clacking and venom leaking. He watched as the man’s writhing body partially slid down the spiderant’s maw, before a sickening _crunch_ reverberated through the Dust, and his body went limp.

He lied there in quiet as some smaller, more curious hatchlings tried to cover him with their webs. The queen hissed and clicked, then turned away slowly. He finally felt himself exhale a long, shaky breath, and thanked the stars that the rumor of spiderants _not_ eating carrion was true.

Well, he smelled like a carrion, at the very least.

He groaned and flipped onto his back, brain humming with painful static. He tried to press a hand to his wound, but found his arms were lead-filled and heavy. Persisting, he unscrewed a hypo and jammed the needle into his leg.

The mixture worked quickly, easing his pain and sending a warm pulse down his body. But it was far from enough to save his life. He threw aside the empty hypo with a _clack_ , and closed his eyes.

He had buried thermal charges near a nest of spiderants as a last resort, hoping that the explosions would force them out should he need a distraction. It partially worked - the spiderants _did_ save his life, but not before he got pumped full of lead by some experimental Hyperion tech.

_Where did he go wrong?_

Knowing the answer and admitting it to himself are two very different ordeals, each no less painful than the other. His pride was beyond bruised as he lay in the desert, under a less-than-hospitable sun, and bleeding to death.

Strangely enough, he saw Zane Flynt sitting down by his side with a pint and a smirk. He wanted to rub his eyes, but again the heavy lead held him down.

“Nappin’ on the job now, are we?” The Irishman joked, sloshing the contents of his bottle around.

He wanted to open his mouth and argue something, presumably a snarky remark even as he approaches his death. Nothing but a quiet breath came from his throat.

“I reckon you’re better off just stayin’ like that, boyo. Red suits ya.”

Then Zane poked at his wounds with the tip of his boots. He bit down a cry and watched Zane get up with the bottle in his hands. The man made a mock salute, then turned and melted into the hot desert air.

_Ah, so that was just…_

He craned his head to the side with some difficulty, seeing the bright green glow from a single optic.

“You die quite a lot, for someone with an unkillable reputation.” Fl4k commented, their single eye narrowing in disapproval.

This time, he managed a weak scoff.

“Arrogant. Reckless. Naive. Doesn’t sound like you at all.” The bot continued to muse, “What changed?”

He wished there’s an answer to that question. But Fl4k just crouched down next to him and put a four-digit hand over his chest wound. He sucked in a deep breath from the contact.

“You know why you’re acting like this. We both know why.”

He kept silent.

Then Fl4k slung their rifle over their shoulder, whistled for their pack, and walked off into the desert like Zane. No footprints.

It hurt like hell. He squinted his eyes and looked up at the sky, three rakks were circling above him, drawn by the smell of blood.

He weakly grasped for his pistol, only for it to slide out of his hands and clatter on the desert ground. Resigned, he let his head drop down and just stared up at the rakks.

Their drifting shadows slid closer, landing near him with a deafening _squawk_. Their beady, iridescent eyes almost looked on at him in sympathy.

“You know why you do this.” The first one croaked. The other two echoed.

_You know why you want this._

_You know why you need this._

They croaked and squawked and bickered, each speaking through their elongated, thin little thoraxes. He squeezed his eyes shut to try and filter out the noise.

_You want this._

_You need this._

_You crave this._

_You want._

_You need._

_You-_

**_BANG!_ **

He shot up in alarm and fear, adrenaline now replacing his pain, but he only managed to lift his head a few inches and immediately collapsed back down. His helmet made a soft _bonk_ as a pair of boots approached him, crunching the sand beneath.

Patricia Tannis looked down at him, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. She threw the shotgun off to the side as he regained normal breathing. Smell of burnt flesh choked him up a little, the rakks were real, and dead in a pile.

“If I hadn’t come sooner, you’d be rakk food.” Tannis teased, “These days you can just randomly find dead assassins lying around the desert.”

He had no smartass comment to make, all his snark has drained along with his blood.

***

And somehow, in his fuzzy state of mind, he was back on Promethea, in a little quaint coffee shop with a mug of strong brew growing cold in his hands.

The sapphire-haired waitress tapped him on the shoulder and he flinched, she shot him a warm smile, “Are you gonna touch that?”  
He didn’t say anything, just pushed the mug in her direction. She scrutinized him through the purple streak tattooed on her face, pressed her lips together, but didn’t say anything.

He has no idea how he ended up here, or what is happening to him right now. He felt around for the wounds through his suit, but his hand only touched the sturdy fabric of his Dahl military jacket.

_When did…?_

The waitress sat opposite of him, and that got his attention. She propped her legs up on a nearby seat and took a long sip from her own mug, ignoring his pointed looks.

“Why did you do it?” She asked him, calmly enjoying her brew.

“Do what?” He decided to play dumb, even though the conversation will clearly lead to nowhere.

“Put yourself in danger. Chase after those bandits and take unnecessary risks. Not the first time you’ve done it.”

“I want to challenge - ”

She lifted a finger and wagged it at him, “None of that poetry bullshit. I know the truth.”

He sighed, “What else would I be good for? Knitting? Crocheting?”

She eyed him from above the rim of her mug, “Mmm-hmm.”

“I may die, or worse. But at least I’d feel _something._ I’d have _done_ something.”

“Too many die in this galaxy without a grave to their names, are you content with that fate?”

“I couldn’t care less.”

“Really?” He could see her furrow her eyebrows from across the table, “You’d sleep where you fall, and fight when you wake. Walk miles to chase down something to kill for fun, get your fix, and move on to the next one _over and over again_?”  
His silence confirmed it.

“What happens when you run out of bandits? Crime lords? Corrupt politicians?”  
He shrugged, “Find something new to hunt down. Repeat as needed.”

“Families? Innocents? Friends?”

He almost laughed at that last one, but her glare stopped him. She set her mug down on the table gently, watching the liquid settle.

“How sad a life Zer0 the assassin lives, how empty. He knows nothing but to kill and to kill and _to kill_. He thinks he doesn’t need friends and doesn’t want help. He’d waste his whole life in the blink of an eye if it means getting him that thrill he wanted so badly.”

His hands balled into a fist, “What is wrong with _that_?”  
She didn’t reply this time, just smiled knowingly with her hands around her mug. That knowing smile got on his nerves _so badly_ , he wanted to get up and slice the smile right off her face and shoot that damned mug and…

And he slumped in his chair, dejected with weariness.

“I want a challenge.” He repeated numbly, voice robotic.

“No,” She leaned in closer, he could see shimmering stars in her eyes, “You _need_ a challenge. It’s how you live. It’s pathological. You _crave_ a challenge. That’s what’s getting you killed. But then there again, you don’t really care, do you?”

Then she was gone, just like that, vanished into thin air, leaving a whiff of warm coffee steam behind. He sat alone in the cafe again, holding his mug and not knowing where he should go next.

***

He can still smell the coffee.

As his brain slowly came back online, he realized that it was not coffee, but decolourized iodine. And he was not in _No Roast for the Wicked_ , but a small hut with low wooden ceiling and plenty of bubbling equipment. On the wall, a skag’s preserved head hangs from its perch with its tongue out. Its eyeballs were in a separate container, staring at him.

Tannis wiped her hands down on the towel by her waist, “Ah, you’re awake.”

“How long did I sleep?”

“A day at most.” She assured him, “The hypos replenished the blood you’ve lost, and accelerated coagulation around the trauma sites. But the broken bones have to heal on their own.”

He sat up with some difficulty, hissing at the pain that shot up through his spine. Then he noticed the bandages across his chest and around his shoulder. He froze, “Did you…?”  
“No.” Tannis replied, “I won’t risk my own life to save you like that. I just bandaged your wounds over the suit and left them to heal.”

“Good.” He ran a hand down the bandages, they felt dry and smelled like disinfectants. “...You have my thanks.”

“A favor, for your efforts.” Tannis picked up something from her table. He strained to see it was a stark new rifle, yellow and white.

“These are E-tech guns, highly experimental, but...also highly effective. I look forward to studying their inner mechanisms.”

“Do I not get one?”

Tannis smiled at him, shook her head, and shoved her haul back into her locker. He knew it was pointless to argue with her, as he was never particularly fond of Hyperion guns anyways.

A creak. Tannis pulled up a small wooden stool next to his bed and began to inspect one of the pistols. As she worked to dismantle the barrel, a thought seemed to pop into her mind.

“You keep throwing yourself into danger.” She commented.

“I know.”

“Could I ever convince you to stop?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t know if that nagging itch in the back of his mind is ever going to go away, or if he will keep waking up with an insatiable hunger and a numbness in his chest. He had always thought himself most content when in the middle of a battle, wavering between life and death.

“Why would you?” He opted to ask. This time, it’s Tannis’s turn to keep silent.

After a while, she looked up from the pistol and spoke again.

“Pandora gets lonely, I suppose. It’s...nice to have a familiar face around.”

And that was a sufficient enough answer for him.

***

The bar was too loud for him. He never had a taste for the combo of loud music, cheap liquor, greasy pizza and cigarette fumes assaulting his senses. So he left Moxxi’s bar to take in the chill night air. Sanctuary hovered high in the sky, and he could almost make out the shiny little dot which should be Eden-6.

Heavy, stumbling footsteps behind him alerted him to the presence of his vault hunter buddies. He turned to see Salvador and Axton staggering out of the bar, each with a bottle in hand. Axton was singing just _a little_ too loudly. They both perked up at the sight of their friend.

“Hey-ey, Zer0!” Axton called out to him, “Stargazin’?”

“About right.”

“You should’ve celebrated with us!” Salvador staggered just a little too hard, almost pulling Axton down with him, “They were waiting to hear about what you did today!”  
“Nothing noteworthy,” He admitted, “We take them out, we move on; they were mere bandits.”

“Still, you looked like you were having fun.” Axton went for a friendly pat on his back, but he slid away, “You _were_ having fun, right?”

“ _Pendejo_ was having the time of his life!” Salvador laughed, swinging his bottle around.

“Never took you for a thrill-chaser, Zer0.” Axton grinned, “What with all that talk of caution and preparation. You’ve got some guts, man.”

He didn’t comment on that, opting to let the vault hunters sing their drunken songs and laugh into the night. Then it was quiet again, leaving his breath to fog up inside his helmet.

Here, maybe he can stop. Once in a while, he can stop chasing that itch, and keep looking at the familiar faces around him. Just as Tannis does

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, please leave a comment or feedback! It really helps motivate me to write stuff :)


End file.
